


To Be Home

by french_charlotte



Series: Luck of the Dane: The Adventures of Sihtric and Finan [2]
Category: The Last Kingdom (TV), The Warrior Chronicles | The Saxon Stories - Bernard Cornwell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Smut, Finan backstory, Historical References, Historical Slavery, M/M, Mix of book and show, Old Norse, Protective Uhtred, Sequel, Sihtric is a teenager, Takes place early season 2, We're going to Ireland, established m/m relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:48:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24830089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/french_charlotte/pseuds/french_charlotte
Summary: Sequel to The Prince and the Slave but can be read as a standalone.A few months have passed since Christmas and Jul, and Finan and Sihtric can't be happier as they fall into a comfortable life in Coccham with talks of wanting to be together forever. All of that is put in jeopardy when Alfred sends Uhtred and his men to answer a call to arms in Ireland. The kingdom Finan was exiled from has been under attack by a brutal Dane none other than Sihtric's uncle. Can they manage to stay together when their birthrights are dragging them apart? Can Ireland be saved?Set early season 2, shortly after Dunholm falls.
Relationships: Finan/Sihtric (The Last Kingdom)
Series: Luck of the Dane: The Adventures of Sihtric and Finan [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1796065
Comments: 16
Kudos: 135





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This story was created as a sequel to The Prince and the Slave but I've tried to set it up to be standalone as well. A few things to note: 
> 
> First, Sihtric. In the books, Uhtred guesses him to be around fourteen years old when they first meet, meaning he's around sixteen when they finally take Dunholm. I'm trying to give nods to both mediums and am settling on Sihtric being 16-17 in this story. Additionally, I'm remaining true to Old Norse slave culture, specifically hereditary slavery that was commonly found. So in this story, he is still a slave. This is explained and explore throughout the story. 
> 
> Finan. His entire backstory that's explored in this story is almost entirely AU. While he is canonically a prince of Ireland, the reason for his banishment in this story comes from my own creative liberties with some historical figures smudged in. The more obvious AU features are Sihtric not getting married and, obviously, this plot with Ireland never existed in the series (though it would be pretty bamf if it did). 
> 
> Thank you guys so much for your encouraging words that have inspired me to continue writing about this adorable pairing. I'll try my best to update periodically on an every other day schedule, but I'm also having a bit of fun working on another piece that's going to just be a collection of Finan/Sihtric drabbles set during these stories.

Alfred didn't like being bothered in his scribe chambers when the late morning sunlight flooded the room at the perfect angle. There was something divinely fitting about writing God’s word under the glow of his natural radiance. Soon the sun would vault into the sky and slowly begin its descent on the western side of the palace. The evening brought about its own measure of tranquility, when the twilight hours tempted crickets to begin their songs and the glass in the chapel would turn prismatic from the sunset. As gracious as it was, the evening hours would force Alfred to rely on candles in his scribe room. And so he wanted nothing more than to make the most of his time in the morning, but he could ignore Father Beocca's nervous fidgeting no longer. 

“Written knowledge,” the king slowly placed the quill back into its ink bath and turned to face the priest loitering in the doorway. “It is a marvel and will change our world. To be reliant on oral knowledge is to be… reliant on man’s faults. Memories fade but written letters will stand the test of time. And soon, education will be available to all of Wessex.” 

Father Beocca smiled thinly. “A great vision, lord king.” 

Alfred stared at him in the same unblinking manner he did when he knew he was being patronized. “Indeed it is.” He paused. “Speak your business, Father Beocca.” 

Straight to the point. The priest had picked the hour wisely. “Do you remember years ago the clergy mentored those young Irish monks?” 

“I do.” 

The clipped tone was to be expected, but Beocca met it with equal hurriedness. His impatience was guided by a pressing concern, for he was the unfortunate herald of the distressing news. “Brother Líadan and I have kept something of close communication since he went back to Ireland. At the least we exchange letters during Epiphany for blessings. But… I… I hadn’t received his normal letter this past Epiphany. Strange for him. And then I received this.” 

With a woodening sigh, Alfred plucked the pale goatskin parcel from the priest’s fingers and carefully opened it. The parchment was exquisitely crafted, but the King expected nothing less from an Irish monastery. It was well known they were recipients of priceless treasuries and fine items. 

But as he read on, he felt his blood turn cold.

The English words were brusque, the writer clearly struggling with the language, but comprehensible and basic enough for the urgency to be understood. Their lands in Ulaid, Ireland - some sub-kingdom referred to as Dál Fiatach - were under heavy assaults and suffering massive casualties, including their blessed monasteries, from the nearby Dane settlement led by Earl Oleif Hrutsson. Their king, Ainbíth mac Áedo, had taken ill for several years with a steep decline in his health as of late. Death stalked them for so long, and now threatened to become a dear friend. 

It was a tale that would find itself at the heart of so many unfortunate kingdoms where the Danes hedonistic cruelty could reach. A tale that Alfred knew intimately himself. He would’ve brushed it off as a domestic affair that Ireland, specifically the king of Dál Fiatach, should oversee and take care of himself. But a collection of messily inked words at the bottom of the parchment stopped him.

_Please. In God’s name and good grace. Please help us._

They were men of God. Turning them away at their final hour of desperate need would be creating a mockery of their faith. Alfred’s wisdom and tenacity in ruling his kingdom had garnered him an applauding reputation that, apparently, stretched far beyond Britain’s borders. What good was reputation and strength of character if he didn’t use that influence in God’s name? 

“We cannot afford to send many men,” he murmured aloud to no one in particular. He could feel Beocca’s gaze fastened on him. “At least not initially. We don’t know how long ago this letter was penned and the current state of Ulaid. Unfortunately, it is entirely possible…” 

He didn’t finish the sentence. But he didn’t need to. 

Beocca grimaced. He’d thought about it too. “I know, lord.” 

“But it is also possible that if they’ve survived this long against the Danes with an ill king, they have strong will.” Ireland. It wasn’t on the same landmass like Mercia and Northumbria or even Wales. But God didn’t give easy trials to his fiercest of warriors; he gave what needed to be tested. Had Alfred floundered in expanding his Christian brotherhood beyond mere borders? Was this his test to see how strong his faith was to non-Saxon Christians? 

His vision for England was to be united as one under God. Dane or Saxon or wherever one hailed. So long as God was in their hearts and their love for England was a close neighbor, any could thrive in England. Was that vision being tested by assisting Christians across the sea? 

The King abruptly grabbed a fresh piece of parchment from a stack that was supposed to be dedicated to tax deeds and hastily dunked the end of his quill in the inkpot. “We will send an initial party to make contact with their king and the monastery. I also want a small company from Wessex’s northwestern regions to be stationed near Sutton in Mercia. Inform Sutton’s lords they need not worry for quartering them.” 

“At once, lord.” A pause. “And… who will be leading the party, lord?” 

The tip of his quill hesitated on the parchment, making a dark blotch bleed on the spot. “Uhtred. I will be sending Uhtred.” 


	2. Chapter 2

“A quarter of bacon slab on Finan winning.” 

Uhtred closed his eyes and turned his face up into the early spring sun with a grin on his face. The rancor of wooden blades clashing with one another, occasionally interrupted with the heavy thud of a sword on a buckler, was music to his ears. It was so loud that it swallowed up nature’s blissful cacophony of gentle winds and chirping birds as they roused from their nests. Spring was a time of revitalization, when the world thawed and eager animals returned back to their fertile lands. It was a time of peace and serenity, but also a time for his warriors to suffer regular bouts of restlessness. With the improvement of weather came the keenness to be outdoors in it. 

Regular sparring competitions turned out to be a perfect plan to satisfy a warrior’s ferment. 

He cracked his eyes open and glanced into the sparring ring in time to see Sihtric’s twin swords cut through the air and Finan struggled to raise his buckler up to avoid a nasty bruise from the wooden blades. A pleased hum rumbled in his throat. “Finan is tired. Three pounds of cod on Sihtric.” 

Clapa roared a laugh. “Your loss, lord.” 

Uhtred’s laugh dried up to a faint smile as he watched the spar unravel with as much splendor as one of the highly choreographed dances at Alfred’s palace. Finan and Sihtric were some of his best warriors and he trusted them with his life. And while he appreciated their strengths in equal measures, he found his eyes favoring the teenage Dane. Sihtric had first come to them rather young; not yet deemed age of majority even but wisened beyond his years through harsh trials. Over the past couple years since he became Uhtred’s man, the measly childhood that remained was filled with being around warriors who respected and empowered him rather than reminded him of his slave status and suffocated his potential. And he’d emerged a strong, intelligent young man.

Tilting his head to the side, Uhtred watched the teen adjust his stance and harmonize his grip on the training blades. Dual wielding. It was a difficult fighting style that required immense control and autonomy, but one the young Dane was proving himself talented in. In a few short months, just as spring would be chased away by summer’s heat and the smell of mint and lilac would bask in the morning sun, Sihtric would be celebrating his seventeenth summer. And yet he fought with the fervor and affinity of a man twice his age.

The teen’s blades noiselessly cut through the air as they were brought down in a series of furious arcs, each one more powerful than the last and strung together with a seamless, defining grace. Sihtric flowed into the steps, his muscles as fluid and deadly as the chilly river that nipped at Coccham’s banks. And as Finan was forced on the back foot and frantically brought his buckler up to defend against the blows, Uhtred welcomed the swell of pride that filled him. 

While Sihtric was illegitimate and never formally recognized by his father, therefore stifling any chance he had to escape his slave rank and having claims on legal holdings, the boy had inherited Kjartan’s best qualities. Just as his father, the teen proved to harness an impressive familiarity and finesse in battle. The fearlessness of his approach and the deadly grace of his movements were a spectacle to behold, and all of Coccham watching did so with an inspiring glee. Since the boy offered himself as Uhtred’s man, Uhtred found himself enjoying training with the teen and watching him progress. He was innovative and cunning, and fought with the drive of an entire army. 

Maybe it was because his wife was swollen with their child that would come, serendipitously enough, around the same time of Sihtric’s birthday, but Uhtred couldn’t stop the flow of paternal pride when he looked at the teen. 

Clapa’s low snicker drew his attention back to the spar in time for Uhtred to witness Finan gain some distance thanks to a nicely timed shield slam to Sihtric’s exposed side. “Look at ‘em, lord. I think they shit talking to each other. Wish I could understand ‘em.” 

With the audience’s thundering rancor, hearing anything above the jeers and claps and hollers would be a miracle. But the muscled Dane was right - the two warrior’s mouths were moving, though their voices were deafened by the crowd. 

Uhtred almost agreed with Clapa if he didn’t see the familiar little smirk - so faint it was almost missed- tug at Sihtric’s lips. And the smoldering glimmer darken Finan’s eyes in response. The same looks he caught the two warriors shooting each other’s way during suppers or briefings, as if the world righted itself then and reminded the two unlikely lovers that they were drawn to each other. 

It was only three months since the Irishman and Dane cemented their relationship during their holiest of holidays, Jul and Christmas, after Sihtric had nearly singlehandedly built Finan’s house for him. And though three months had passed and the snow and ground had thawed in time for spring’s blissful harvest, their love wasn’t carried away with the winter. No, in fact, it only strengthened with time. 

Uhtred forced a laugh. “I wish I could hear it as well.” The lie was almost believable. 

Inwardly, he thanked whatever gods were listening for the crowd’s rowdiness. 

“If… if… I win…” Duck. Twist to the left. Tuck in the left leg. Adjust his weight. “You use the blindfold and bindings on me.” 

Finan’s sudden surprise nearly lost him the match. Smiling cockily despite the falter, he scrambled to yank his buckler up in time to defend against a wooden blade. “Ya liked that the other night, aye?” 

“Maybe I did.” But Sihtric’s beaming smile agreed. 

“And if… I win…” Finan needed to gain the upperhand; it was true that he was tired compared to Sihtric’s neverending fount of energy. The teen was enriched with the favor of youthfulness, when hours could pass and he still continued to avoid fatigue. It was that incredible energy that aided the boy in his aggressive fighting style, making his deadly footwork difficult to follow and nearly impossible to get an offensive edge in. But it was all power and aggression. And like a fast flame, it would burn bright and furious for a span before quickly extinguishing itself. All Finan had to do was keep up his defenses while the Dane exhausted himself on the front of his buckler. 

It was a beautiful irony that Sihtric’s fighting style had so many parallels with his bedroom habits. 

“If I win, I want ya to do that thing with your tongue on my balls.” 

A wooden blade cut an arc woefully short, making Sihtric lose his footing and stumble off-kilter to the side. Seeing it as a rare opening, Finan almost felt guilty to take it, knowing he was the cause, as he slammed the wooden shield against the Dane’s vulnerable, unarmed side. And if his mind wasn’t on deliciously provocative thoughts, he would’ve done more damage than merely sending his opponent sprawling to the ground. 

Finan lunged to follow up with a kick to the Dane’s left wrist in hopes to disarm him - one of the blades had to go. But Sihtric was expecting it, and threw his body in the opposite direction and rolled back to his feet with lithesome dignity. 

With the stakes cast on the table, Finan wasn’t sure whether he wanted to win or lose anymore. Victory was sweet, but seeing his Danish lover tied up for his pleasure was arguably sweeter. 

As they danced around each other, blades occasionally clashing and splinters of timber sent flying in all directions, Finan still couldn’t believe the fantastic turn his life took. Three months ago, not only did he gain his own piece of land and humble home to call his own, but he also found someone who made him want to settle down. But at its core, his relationship with Sihtric was terrifying; never before had he felt so vulnerable and _scared_ to lose something. And losing Sihtric was a very real danger. They were both warriors, trained and proud, and their livelihood thrust them into precarious situations more often than not. 

And then there was his omnipotent fear of losing Sihtric to another man or woman. Eventually, in the very near future, that was a worry he needed to put to rest by having a serious conversation with the Dane. 

Flipping his wooden axe in his right hand tauntingly, Finan drank in the sight before him. Despite his mixed blood of Saxon and Dane, Sihtric embraced his paternal heritage when in the midst of battle. His brow was damp, streams of sweat pooling into his intense eyes darkened with lust for the spar and the same lewd thoughts Finan was privy to. And the Irishman knew that while Sihtric was certainly a sight to behold, he wasn’t nearly as fierce as he looked when in a true battle. 

His ache for him worsened. 

“Riders! Riders at the gates!” 

The announcement from the lookout stationed on the town’s wall brought the friendly spar and source of entertainment to an abrupt halt. Within seconds the crowd cleared out in a hurried frenzy: merchants rushed to their wares and rickety carts in case the visitors were in need of trade, and the warriors armed themselves with their weapons in case of more sinister intentions. Finan and Sihtric exchanged the wooden swords for real ones, sending smiles to one another as they fastened their belts. 

“I’d say it was a draw.” 

Finan smacked the teen on the shoulder as they rushed to join Uhtred at the gate. “I’ll get the bindings and ya bring that tongue of yours.” 

Uhtred blinked rapidly as the gates drew open and tried to pretend he didn’t just hear those words. 

A half dozen riders trotted into Coccham, each one wearing the blazing colors of Alfred’s household, with the sole exception of the rider in front. 

“Father Beocca!” 

The priest happily dismounted from his steed and embraced Uhtred rigidly. Though a smile sprawled across his lips, it was weak and weary, a threadbare veil that poorly hid the burden weighted on his shoulders. Finan and Sihtric exchanged an uneasy look. 

“Uhtred… we must talk at once.” In the distance, a collection of storm clouds crested on the horizon rumbled with thunder. The priest cleared his throat and cast a pointed, tired look at the royal entourage that accompanied. Heavily armed yet wearing pressed tabards, their appointments were esteemed and elevated. They were more than mere foot soldiers; they were royal guards. Alfred’s men.

Uhtred followed the look and groaned. “Do not tell me Alfred sent you.” 

Beocca grinned wryly. “Then I shall tell you that I am here for Wessex. She calls on you yet again.” 

That earned another round of groans from Coccham’s lord. Gesturing for them to move to his longhouse, Uhtred turned to Sihtric, who followed behind at his heels as his station demanded. It was just the way of things; they all knew their places, just as hardwired as birds knew they belonged in the sky and fish in the sea. Finan found his spot at Uhtred’s right-hand side and the Dane teen always remained behind. Though the power imbalance might’ve caused a chasm for other couples Uhtred knew, Sihtric and Finan seemed to have learned to exist in it. 

Uhtred briefly eyed Alfred’s men standing beside their horses, looking around Coccham in morbid wonder, well within earshot. No doubt they’d all heard the stories of the Saxon-born Dane that cut down any army he faced in Alfred’s name. And no doubt some of those stories embellished his pagan qualities and painted him some kind of monster. How did the Lord of Coccham run his estate and village? Would there be any sacrifices to witness? Feasting on human flesh to appease their gods? 

“Sihtric, take the soldiers to the stables and see to their horses,” Uhtred addressed the teen in Danish. The Saxon guards eyed the Danes, unfamiliar with the strange language. It even earned an elevated brow from Finan. Despite his best attempts at learning his lover’s native tongue, it was a painfully slow process. Gaelic and Danish couldn’t be further apart. 

Sihtric hesitated and looked past Uhtred at the longhouse imploringly. 

The older Dane rolled his eyes. “I will tell you everything.” Satisfied when the teen nodded, he jerked his head towards the soldiers, and continued in Danish. “Do not speak English to them. If they address you in English, pretend that you do not understand. And later, tell me anything and everything they say.” 

“Yes, lord.” 

Lingering behind, Sihtric tried to starve the flare of disobedience that nearly bloomed. Switching back to English, Uhtred instructed Alfred’s guards to follow his _træl_ , the Danish word for slave, to have their horses stabled and shown to their quarters. Visitors were typically granted the luxury of furs in the main chamber of the longhouse, but he had doubts the skeptical Christians would want to stay in a pagan homestead. And so they were given the luxury of options: sleeping with their horses, or swallowing their pride and staying in the longhouse. 

Sihtric already knew what their choice would be. Not that he cared much. Let them sleep with their animals. 

He tried to hide his disappointment as Uhtred and Finan escorted Beocca into the longhouse while he trudged in the opposite direction with the soldiers. It used to bother him when Uhtred would introduce him with that word, _træl_ \- one of the few Danish terms Saxons knew. But Uhtred only employed it when it served a purpose. It was a tool and in this situation it was just as useful. Sihtric’s cunningness was arguably more deadly than his blades, and he proved to be an impressive spy and scout. Alfred’s men, like all men, had cast their assumptions within seconds of seeing him. He was young, so far had only spoken Danish, and had been called a slave. They underestimated him already. 

The farce was all for nothing; the trip to the stables was boring. Alfred’s guards did indeed treat Sihtric as though he could understand nothing they said, but they said nothing of importance either. Or at least what he would call important. They insulted Coccham’s meager size, blaming it on the failed ambitions of a pagan - clearly their god had forsaken the village. A few made comments on wanting to leave as soon as possible, once they received Uhtred’s agreement to Alfred’s deployment. And while Sihtric desperately wanted to ask what deployment that was, doing so would blow his cover. And so he maintained a neutral expression while throwing hay at their horses and making sure their troughs were filled with water. 

After having his fill of the soldiers and deeming it a lost cause, the teen made his way back to the longhouse. That word continued to stalk him, _træl_ , despite how much he tried to ignore it. It was true that he was forever branded a slave thanks to his heritage. Born to a Saxon slave girl, Kjartan’s refusal to acknowledge him had ensured his lot in life. And while he could be pardoned by his new master, Uhtred, doing so still wouldn’t grant him full rights of a free man. The Danish ranks were antiquated, supposedly created by their god, Heimdall, and attempting to dismantle it was seen as a slight to their pantheon. Buying his freedom would only elevate him marginally in their social ladder to a freed-man. It would allow him to own some land, make his own living, and be recognized as his own person with a voice. But he would hold obligations to his current Master for the rest of his life and still be required to pay and include him in matters.

And he could never be _free-born_. That was taken from him at conception. 

It felt strange that he’d been taken as a lover by someone on the opposite end of the social ladder. A prince. Granted, Finan was an exiled prince and always grew grim when Sihtric called him one, but he was royal by birth. Maybe Christians didn’t believe that their ranks were crafted by their god like the Danes did. But to the pagans, being born of a rank was rigid and destined. It was what the gods wanted for you, and how the web of their society was built with a sturdy foundation. No one wanted to be _træl_ , but trying to escape it could bring a fate worse than slavery. To fight against the societal ladder the gods created was to welcome curses and their anger. And no pious Dane, no matter how brutal their masters were to them, would chance the anger of the gods. 

By the time Sihtric got to the longhouse, a hushed silence had fallen on those inside. It was the stifling type that no one wanted, when a burden took physical form and filled the space uncomfortably. It was the type that soured the air and made it feel weighty. 

Finan sat across the table from Beocca as Uhtred grudgingly got Sihtric up to speed on what was transpiring. The Irishman’s eerie stillness and refusal to meet the teen’s inquiring gaze was the first hint that something was wrong. Hild’s stricken face was the second.

Uhtred, under Alfred’s royal protection and serving as his vassal, was being sent to the northeastern coast of Ireland to answer a monastery’s desperate plea for help against Danish attacks. While Ireland was quite a trip beyond Wessex’s borders, the assignment itself wasn’t strange. But it explained Finan’s solemness. The Irishman had sworn off his native lands, claimed for years they meant nothing to him and he had no reason to go back. He couldn’t go back; he was outlawed and as good as dead the moment he stepped on Irish soil. And when Sihtric heatedly said as much, Uhtred calmly lifted a hand and claimed Finan was protected under Alfred’s seal.

“But there is more…”

Finan kept his head down and eyes fastened on the table, gaze tracing the dizzying grooves and pale knots in the wood. He didn’t look up as Uhtred spoke, but he could feel the pain and regret in his lord’s voice. He didn’t care what Christians and Alfred said about him; Uhtred was a good man with a heart fuller and more giving than any monk he’d ever met. And if it had been anyone else with the mission to have him return to Ireland, his answer would’ve been an easy refusal. And while Ireland was a large island, the specific kingdom the monastery was located in was Dál Fiatach, Ulaid. The very kingdom he was exiled from. The very kingdom that he used to be the crown prince of. 

It was more complicated than just that. While he bristled at the thought of going back to Ireland, he wasn’t sure how Sihtric would take the news. 

There was silence after Uhtred unveiled who the Dane was that was attacking the Irish monastery. Earl Oleif Hrutsson. Brother of Kjartan Hrutsson of Dunholm. 

His uncle. 

“Sihtric.” The Irishman could hear the apology in Uhtred’s voice. “I understand if you do not wish to accompany me. I know that this… that your family…” 

Uhtred never finished the sentence. But Finan didn’t know what he could honestly say. ‘Your family has so far proven themselves to be wretched’ , or ‘this is another of your family members that I have to go kill'? And perhaps Sihtric was thinking the same thing, for he remained quiet. 

“As much as I want to tell Alfred and his god I won’t go, I will be. It is my duty.” Uhtred paused for a moment. “While I would like you with me, Sihtric, I will not demand it. Instead I will give you the same option that I gave Finan, given your… circumstances. Come with if you wish, or stay if you want to.”

A deal that Finan hadn’t even decided on. At that, he finally looked up, curious to see Sihtric’s reaction. He almost missed the teen leaning cross-armed against a support beam near the back of the longhouse, his eyes unfocused on the dusty floorboards. 

Sihtric’s allurement wasn’t in the manner that he moved, but in the grace when he remained still. He mastered the rare talent of existing in the shadows, falling to the background on a moment’s notice. Men would strive to master the art for decades, for what good was a scout or assassin that couldn’t become intimate with their surroundings? But Sihtric developed the talent out of necessity for survival; a cruel life was his teacher and fear of punishment were his lessons. While Kjartan starved his bastard son of nearly everything else, he’d given him the tools to become a worthy scout and spy. Perhaps that was life’s demented humor when it came to natural talents: though revered and fawned at by many, talents were nothing more than products of life’s pain and suffering. 

Finan’s own mastery with his blades was a bittersweet one. As much as he yearned for the acrid smell of battle and the feel of the leather-wrapped pommel in his grip, the fire in him was kept lit by nightmares left behind in Ireland. He was Uhtred’s oathman and would fight where needed, but in his mind, he killed the same man over and over. 

For so long, his brother only existed in his mind, in those battles. And now he was jeopardizing it all. 

“Before I give you my answer, I wish to speak to speak with Finan. Alone.”

Sihtric’s words grabbed everyone’s attention: Uhtred, Beocca, Hild, Clapa. The latter had only just begun to suspect something between the two warriors, and this only reaffirmed it. Finally, Finan caught the teen’s gaze, but it was dark and unreadable. Just like the north sea during a storm. 

Uhtred smiled thinly. “Give me your answers by tomorrow morning. Alfred is to have us meet up with shipwrights in a small Mercian coastal village soon. Supposedly they’re Danes and are willing to part with a longship for silver.” 

Finan and Sihtric were silent to one another as they departed the longhouse, and continued that silence on the trek back to their shared home. By now the storm clouds brewing in the sky had rolled in, welcomed by the dreary news and soured moods, and churned angrily. Fat raindrops splattered occasionally on them, but neither man hurried their pacing. They were both drenched when they made it to the dark home. 

Neither broke the silence as Sihtric started a fire in the hearth, throwing logs in and striking the flint rocks to welcome the flames. But the silence was uncomfortable, even for Sihtric who typically enjoyed it. Staring into the flames, he rubbed his hands against his forearms to chase away the chill from the rain. “Three houses.” 

Finan looked up from pouring two mugs of ale. “What?” 

“You asked me months ago how many houses I’ve built. Remember? When I was building this house. It was three. I helped build three.” He felt the Irishman’s gaze on him but he let the memories take him away. “In Hocchale, the small Saxon town near Dunholm where my mother was taken from, all of the people there were enslaved. They were mostly farmers and no fighters, and everything they harvested went to Dunholm first.” 

It was rare that Sihtric spoke of his past but given the potential likelihood of him meeting his uncle, his memories were spurned to life. Finan placed the ale on the hearth for his lover and watched him expectantly. 

“Male slaves are… we are expected to do the hardest work. Herding animals, working the fields, and peat digging if you were on the farms. Almost all of my time was in Dunholm, though. I attended the warriors' needs in all meanings of the word. Cleaned and sharpened their weapons, maintained their armor, provided entertainment when they were restless in the winters from no raiding.” The bitterness was rough. “But I also built houses in Hocchale when they needed it. Three.” 

The ale tasted lifeless and Finan happily abandoned it as he sat on the bench tucked at their table, right behind the hearth. Reaching forward, he gently took Sihtric by the hips and turned him to face him. The Dane could’ve pushed back, but he didn’t. Maybe he needed his touch as much as Finan did. “Ya are not in Dunholm anymore,” he softly reminded him as he guided him to his lap. “And ya are not a slave like that.” 

“But I am a slave.” 

“Would ya prefer it the other way?” Finan gently cupped his fingers around the teen’s angular jaw, while his other hand supported his lover’s hip. “If Kjartan had adopted ya, ya would’ve been a legitimate son to that bastard. Would ya have wanted that instead?” 

The question gave Sihtric pause. “No. I don’t… I thought that seeing him killed in Dunholm would’ve made me feel better. Like I would’ve gotten some kind of closure for everything he made me endure. But it’s done the opposite.” 

“Closure is overrated anyways.” That at least earned a weak smirk from the Dane. “We’re warriors, Sihtric. We don’t get closure. We keep fighting imaginary enemies. That’s what we do.” 

The teen placed his hands against the Irishman’s sides, seeking warmth and strength from the older man’s presence. They were close already with him seated in his lap but he wanted to be closer. “So you will not get closure by going back to Ireland with Uhtred?” 

“No more closure than ya will get by seeing your uncle.” A pause. “And I haven’t decided yet. I wanted to see if ya were going first.” 

The broad chest beneath Sihtric’s hands inflated with a content sigh, the same type of sigh his lover gave when finally relaxing from the world, when they were together and that was all that mattered. “Would we be running from our pasts if we didn’t go?” 

A crackle from the fire filled the brief moment of silence. “I don’t care so much about the past. Ireland can stay gone. I have no love for her or her people anymore. But I love _ya_ , Sihtric. And all I care about is going forward with _ya_. Forever.” 

The Dane smiled and looked down. “Forever is a long time.” 

“It doesn’t feel nearly long enough.” The moment had come and Finan wouldn’t let it pass. Not with this trip on their doorstep. His fingers curled around his lover’s face, turning it upwards so he could catch his eye. “I mean it. I can’t take ya to the altar to make ya mine but I would if it was a thing. I want ya with me, always. I want ya to be my only, me to be yours.” It was the closet to a marriage proposal he could give, and it still felt underwhelming. And for a horrible moment, he worried the Dane would turn it down. 

But Sihtric understood. And when the flourish of a smile immediately stretched across his face, Finan felt his heart leap from his chest in the best of ways. “Then we will need to work on your Danish.” 

“And your Gaelic.” 

“We’ll have the whole trip to Ireland to practice.” 

Finan hooked a brow up. “So we are going?” 

The young Dane took a breath and leaned forward until their foreheads melted against one another. The heat from the fire warmed them, drying their clothes drenched from the rain, but he still longed for the warmth of his lover. “My uncle means nothing to me. And Ireland and your family mean nothing to you. We are doing this as Uhtred’s oathmen and… and to be with one another. We won’t be facing those things alone.” 

The teen made it sound so simple. And maybe it was in the moment. It sounded too good to be true, though. And maybe if Finan wasn’t so blinded by his happiness at his lover accepting his pseudo marriage proposal, he would’ve questioned the plan to return to Ireland more. Instead, he leaned forward and solidified it with a kiss. “Should we do something to commemorate our… union?” 

Sihtric snorted. “Like a ceremony?” 

“I heard ya Danes do something called a ‘honey-moon’. Ya get drunk off honey-mead and spend the moon fucking.” 

“Yes, there is that. And that begins after the couple are witnessed consummating their marriage in front of their attendants. Who are usually their closest friends and family.” 

Finan hummed. “I’ll pass on having Uhtred and Clapa watch me bend ya over.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the kudos and comments! I originally was going to split this chapter into two but they seemed a wee bit on the short side sooo... badda bing, badda boom... here it is!

The trip from Coccham to Sutton was long, even with horses. Uhtred and his oathmen - and Hild - had set off immediately per Alfred’s orders. A legion of Wessex’s soldiers would be waiting for them at the Mercian coastal village, though they wouldn’t be accompanying them across the Irish Sea. They would remain stationed at the ready in the small village, prepared to take boats the moment they received word from Uhtred that Ireland was in need of their assistance. 

Wessex and Mercia’s landscapes were mostly flat with the occasional hills. As the days passed and the entourage traveled through the middle of the lands, the forests grew denser and darker. They stopped to make camp at night and fill their stomachs with the salted fish and pork they brought with them. Their days were filled with a mixture of conversations; Sihtric prided himself to be an undefeated riddle master in games, Beocca spoke of the differences between Celtic and Saxon Christians, and Uhtred pressed Finan for everything he could tell him about his family’s kingdom. 

Surprisingly, the exiled prince took the questions in cool stride. 

He retold everything he could about the Danes that ultimately led to his own banishment. It was years ago that Earl Oleif Hrutsson had first encroached on their lands, like so many Danes were doing to the Irish coasts, and caused a rift in power. His brother believed they could not win against the Danes and they needed to acquiesce to their demands. Finan strongly believed they needed to show brute force as their forefathers did, for paying the Danes would only feed their lust for more treasures. In the end, his brother, Conall, had convinced their father, King Ainbíth mac Áedo, that the Danes could be reasoned with beyond the edge of a blade, and that Finan’s refusal to accept that order was treasonous. Finan’s attempt to assemble his armies of north Dál Fiatach had been squandered by his father’s draconian decision to strip him of his title and banish him from the kingdom in slave chains. 

As irony would have it, the same Danes that were supposedly dealt with by his brother and father were the very ones attacking the monastery. But the Irish monk’s letter described a “Danish settlement”, suggesting it was more than just a mere raid. 

After crossing the sea, they would need to make their way first to Ráth Celtchair, the capital of the kingdom and seek audience with his father. According to the letter, his father had taken ill, which meant his brother was likely eyeing the throne. Finan urged Uhtred to speak only to his father; he was a sensible man, despite his decision to cast out his first born son, and normally made sound decisions when his brother was not involved. 

Sihtric had listened quietly to his lover’s murky description of his family. There was something incredibly alluring about it all. Maybe it hit home then that Finan really was a prince. Or maybe it was the driving conviction that filled his voice and hardened his eyes when he spoke of the kingdom he had once been set to inherit. He was a fierce warrior, but he was so much more than that. 

And when they were half a day’s ride away from Sutton and stopped for the night to camp, Sihtric finally asked Finan the question that had been pawing at his mind since they left Coccham days ago. 

“What is your real name?” 

The tent they shared was small, only big enough for them to comfortably nestle near one another, but not decently sizable to fit a third. They’d chosen a spot far from the others yet still close enough for the campfires to cast dulled illuminations on the sides of their tent. Laying together half-clothed, Finan idly grazed his fingertips along the steep curve of Sihtric’s naked shoulder as the young Dane hugged his torso, his head laying on his chest. 

“Ya know my name.” 

“Your _full_ name. Finan is not it. Not when your father’s name is so long.” Shifting slightly, Sihtric gently turned himself so he could look up at the Irishman watching him. The darkness was consuming but not so much that he missed the quizzically elevated brow. “If we are to be…” He searched for the English word, “to be in a union together, we will need to be honest with these things. Here. I’ll go first. Sihtric Kjartansson.” 

Finan snorted in amusement and brushed a stray hair from the Dane’s face. The braids were messy from their travels. “I know your name, though I don’t know why ya use that bastard’s name for your own.” 

“He is still my father, even if he never acknowledged me as his son, and that still makes me part of his kinship.” The words were spoken with a small hint of surprise, as if it were the most obvious thing. Seeing the skepticism still on the Irishman’s face, the teen continued more patiently. “Among our people, we do not believe in this idea of a soul like you Christians do. Or rather our souls aren’t just… one mind-like presence. It’s not like that for us. That only makes up a quarter of ourselves. Another quarter, called the hamingja, is inherited luck or honor from your family.” 

“Ya think ya inherited _luck_ from Kjartan?” 

Sihtric frowned. “Not all luck is good.” 

Understanding slowly seeped into Finan. If what the Dane said was true and they placed so much value in their inherent family’s power and ‘luck’, it made sense that he was weary of his uncle. It might’ve been another example of a wayward family member, just further evidencing a soured element among his relatives. 

“That’s only half of ya,” Finan was quick to point out with a half-grin. The darkness suited Sihtric, as it always did, making his sharp features look more dramatic and captivating. “Don’t forget you’re still Saxon. Ya might inherit their luck.” 

The teen chuckled dryly. “Farmers who were enslaved by Danes? I’m not sure whose luck is worse.” 

“The easy solution is to finally walk a Christian path. Then all of this worry is for nothing and what ya decide to do with your soul is up to ya. Well, it’s between ya and God but don’t get caught on the technicalities.” 

Two necklaces hung from Sihtric’s neck - his mother’s cross and Thor’s hammer. And he grabbed at both of them when he needed strength and empowerment. The topic of faith was a trying one for him as he fought to navigate his spiritual calling. For now, he still favored his pagan gods. 

Pushing himself up slightly, he ran a hand along Finan’s bearded jawline. “Your attempt to distract me from my question isn’t working.” 

“It’s kind of working.” 

“Your name. What is it?” 

In the distance, Finan heard others in the camp changing out who was on watch. He briefly considered enlisting lewd tactics to distract his young lover but thought better of it. It was late and they would have to rise at dawn to make it to Sutton before half the day was over. And while he was comfortable starting his day in tandem with the sun, the Dane teen was notoriously not. “Finan mac Áedo. That’s what it _was_. But I’m no longer part of that dynasty. Haven’t been for years and don’t grieve for it anymore. So now I am just Finan.” 

The name was powerful, Sihtric silently mused as they folded themselves around each other. And though he tried the name out, his recital of it was difficult. The intones of Gaelic had a strange throaty tremor to them. Navigating through the Saxon tongue was hard enough; Gaelic was an entirely new beast. 

But Finan burst out laughing at the butchered attempt and wrapped his arms possessively around the young man. As clumsy as Sihtric was in attempting his name, hearing it from his lover in his heavy Danish brogue sent a lustful warmth shooting through him. And suddenly he didn’t care so much for the late hour anymore. 

Besides, Sihtric would be crabby in the morning even if he got a full night’s sleep. 

Entangling his legs between Sihtric’s, he flipped the two of them until the Dane’s back was plastered against their furs. Though his esteemed education forced him to endure art lessons, he never mastered it, and in that moment he regretted it. For there was no sight more enchanting and captivating than seeing his lover caught beneath him, his eyes burning with desires as fervent as the strain in his own breeches. 

Nuzzling his lips into the delicate crook of the Dane’s neck, Finan peppered a trail of furious kisses along his pulse. “Think ya manage to be quiet for once?” 

The pleased moan that rumbled up the teen’s throat answered him. 

Pressing a hand into the furs and balancing his weight on it, Finan drew himself up to level a warning stare down at his lover. “They will hear us.” 

“Then let them listen.”

* * *

When dawn came, Sihtric was expectantly grumpy, offering no more than feral grunts and noncommittal groans when tearing down their tent and refitting the horses. The tired, foul-mooded teenager was a point of entertainment for Uhtred, who took amusement in poking fun at his expense. And just as they were readying their horses, Coccham’s lord spotted a patch of broken skin on Sihtric’s neck, conspicuously mouth shaped. 

“Is he fit to ride?” 

Hoisting himself up onto his own steed, Finan blinked in confusion and followed his lord’s stare to the teen grimacing a bit as he readjusted himself in the saddle. The mark on his neck stood out on his flaxen skin, making the Irishman chuckle back at Uhtred. “Didn’t seem to stop 'em last night.” 

“Gods help me.” 

Their ride to Sutton was comfortable after that, moods brighter and happier. Even Sihtric couldn’t keep his grumpiness alive as he heard Uhtred and Finan’s laughter, though the source was lost to him. Clapa had made the mistake of curiously asking Beocca about something in Christianity, which prompted the priest to happily rattle on about his faith to the poor Dane who only half understood him. Slowing his horse to fall into step beside the muscular man, Sihtric and him shared a few quiet Danish jokes about the absurdity of the monotheistic faith and questioned whether Beocca would continue all the way until they reached Sutton. Surely no one could be so long winded. 

Sutton’s gates eventually bloomed on the horizon and Beocca was still preaching to an uninterested audience. 

Alfred had already sent his company of soldiers before Uhtred departed Coccham, and they’d reached the Mercian village days before them. Sutton’s ealdorman had been well informed by Wessex’s esteemed king, told only what was deemed absolutely crucial to achieve their presence, and welcomed Uhtred’s entourage with a full smile and boisterous pleasantries. He had a quirky grandfatherly feel about him, Sihtric determined as they stood in the village’s central courtyard while being received. The ealdorman, Ceonred of Sutton, was an older man with wild, wiry patches of ash hair on the sides of his head, while the top was a balding oasis. Sihtric had to fight not to stare at the near blinding sun glare on his barren scalp, which was even more difficult when the man would procure a dedicated cloth from his tunic and use it to wipe nonexistent sweat from the bald spot. 

He was strange but in an endearing way. And despite Alfred’s initial insistence that Mercia did not need to quarter their men - Uhtred included - Ceonred was having none of it. Wessex’s company was given a dedicated field to pitch their tents near the village, but were invited to frequent Sutton’s alehouses and merchants whenever they desired. As for Uhtred’s entourage, the ealdorman insisted they stay within the city as his guests and wouldn’t take a refusal. 

The man’s eccentricism was a striking difference to Alfred’s staunch composure. His laughs came easy and genuine, and he looked at his subjects and people with adoration. He was the type of man with an infectious love of life, but authoritarian when he needed to be. 

“Things are different up here.” Uhtred had whispered to Sihtric when he saw the dumbfounded look on the teen’s face. 

They were very different indeed. 

As they were led through the narrow paths winding between the sandstone and wattle structures, Sihtric marveled at how many Danes he saw. And how much Danish he heard! They were mixed in with the Mercians, creating the most curious of crowds. They traded and exchanged goods and services in a whimsical combination of their languages, though both parties seemed to simply understand the odd hybrid. The clothing were strikingly different, matching their respected side, but they engaged in commerce and conversation without discrimination. They simply lived without caring for what the other looked like or was wearing. 

It was a beautiful mix of Saxon and Danes. Exactly what he was. 

Sihtric’s curiosity finally got the better of him when they reached the alehouse Ceonred insisted they occupy during their visit. As Finan and the rest stepped inside, eager for rest, he lingered behind with Uhtred. “Ealdorman, lord, there are many Danes here.” 

The outspokenness from the teen made the Mercian laugh full-bodily. His guards even shared amused glances. “Why yes, boy, why wouldn’t there be?” 

“I… I apologize, lord, I don’t know… are there…” Sihtric looked desperately at Uhtred for help, but his lord just shrugged, just as curious on the matter. 

Ceonred barked another round of laughs and clapped the teen on the shoulder, giving it a warm squeeze. “The northern tip of our peninsula is settled by the Danes. They’ve three main villages: Kirkjubyr, Gräfburh, and Meols. All northwest of here. And their parliament is an even shorter distance away at Þing Vollr. We’ve come to not only respect our boundaries but embrace each other as neighbors. The Good Lord would have it no other way! And besides, the Danes bring some of the finest trade. Have you seen the silk they have collected from the east?” 

The rest of the day passed by slowly, for that was the pace of the coastal village. No one moved with the pressing urgency that possessed the citizens of Wintanceaster. They took the time to pause in their day to enjoy their meals and ale, a good conversation, and storytelling. Tools were left abandoned at worksites around mid-afternoon, the workers choosing not to return in favor of drinking songs and games at the tavern. It was a simpler, quieter way of life. 

It was a life that was interesting to see but Sihtric knew it wasn’t for him. Or Finan. They both desired a warrior’s life. 

When night fell, they all shared drinks and bland stew that was overcooked and nearly tasteless. The alehouse was lively and packed, the patrons either immune to the food’s questionable caliber or accepting of it. It was the ambiance and energy that drew the crowd. There were arm wrestles and betting games, drunken men embracing each other in song and dance, and a collection of whores lingering near the backdoor. 

“We will be meeting our shipwrights tomorrow,” Uhtred began as he downed another mug of ale. It had a bitterness like an herb and much stronger than what he was used to. And if he was feeling the effects already… “They are in a Dane settlement a little north of here. Not a far ride.” As he spoke, he reached forward casually and dragged Sihtric’s cup across the table towards him. “We will be taking one longship.” 

“I will _not_ be rowing,” Finan protested. Taking a sip from his own ale, he passed it over to Sihtric when he saw the frown on the young Dane’s face after having his taken from him. But one subtle shake of the head from Uhtred, coupled with a warning look, made him take back his drink. 

“We will all be taking turns. Except for Hild. She is the only one exempt. Besides, we will not be at sea for long. An entire day and night if the winds are favorable.” 

The nun in question had refused to accompany them to the alehouse. She and Father Beocca had chosen to use that time to visit the church and bring good word from Wessex. There was a brotherhood among the clergy and they wished to keep it strong. Faith reached across boundaries and province lines. 

The next day brought them traveling through the coastal countryside that was, interestingly enough, very different from the eastern coasts that Sihtric was used to. Dunholm didn’t rest on the sea but also wasn’t far from it, a mere hour or two ride on horseback. Those waters were different; wild with an expressive ocean-worthy seascape. For they fed into the North Sea that was turned chaotic from the mixture of cold currents in the north. They were also the seas that would bring them back to their peoples land of Denmark. 

The peninsula Sutton was located on acted like it was half underwater. The tides were intense and left the land in a spectacle of marshes that smelled heavy of salt and mackerels. The forests were sparse and thin and proved easy to navigate through. But the more he traveled, the more it made sense the Danes and Mercians struck an accord to exist together. The peninsula had the most dreadful conditions for battles and raids; the muddy marshes would make marching close to impossible and the lack of cover wouldn’t hide much of an army. Maybe it wasn’t that they truly accepted each other as harmoniously as it came across, but rather they accepted that they had no other logical choice. 

They eventually came upon a meager settlement of Danish-looking longhouses with thin streams of smoke rising from the centers. Wordlessly, their small six-man party changed their formation as they walked through the open gates; the Saxons slowed their horses to allow the Danes to take the front, in the event of nefarious welcomes. 

But there was none to be had. The settlement was filled with nothing more than traders and shipwrights, their livelihood taking up almost all of their time. The entire settlement seemed to revolve around the boatbuilding vocation, for even the women and children were dressed in working smocks covered in wood dust and oil. Not that it surprised Sihtric much. Though he didn’t have much experience at all with sailing or longships, he knew enough that to build one took incredible time and manpower. 

The two master shipwrights were also the leading elders of the settlement, and were the ones that greeted their party with a tired scowl. At first, Uhtred had introduced himself in English, but quickly began favoring Danish again when the scowls deepened. The shipwrights stiffly looked the Saxons up and down appraisingly, their sunkissed foreheads wrinkling as they considered them and their worth. Clapa was given an acceptable tilt of the head forward, clearly he passed their approval. And when they looked at Sihtric, they took in his charcoal lined eyes, intricate criss-cross leather armor, and sharp sword strung at hip. At a glance, and for those who weren’t well reared in their customs, he was the epitome of a proud Danish warrior. But they both immediately looked down at the loose iron choker shallowly hung from his neck, the front clasped together by a thin leather cord that rested right at his throat. For a Saxon, or any who weren’t familiar with traditional Danish practices, the necklace was mistaken as a pagan fashionable item. But it served a purpose. It was a more allowing and liberal form of the collar Danish slaves wore to show their status. Uhtred hadn’t forced him to wear anything he didn’t want, but Sihtric hadn’t turned it down either when he was given it. Who was he to deny the gods his rank in life? The other custom was to keep his hair shortly cut. He didn’t entirely embrace that; instead he shaved the sides of his head and kept the middle longer, but tucked back into three narrow braids that met together in a waterfall of two buns at the back of his head. 

The shipwrights nodded stiffly at him and, for the remainder of his time in the village, addressed him as _træl._

There was already a longship waiting for them, purchased by Alfred and to be returned to the shipwrights for a partial refund when they came back from Ireland. Resting on a bed of timber planks keeping it elevated for those to marvel its impressive craftsmanship, Uhtred ran his hand along the distinctive leaf shaped hull, the smooth oak planks placed together in the traditional formation to make it flex seamlessly through shallow or terse waters. Danish shipbuilding was legendary and sought after; no one else in the world could match their prowess. They mastered the knowledge of woodworking, knowing not only how to thinly sheer the planks to less than an inch in thickness, but to also lay them in a clinking pattern that made them ironclad against harsh conditions. The keel was modest but the stern and bow were pronounced and strong. It was deceptively simple looking, but undeniably powerful. 

A strong mast emerged from the center, broad yet graceful, and would hold a linen and wool sail to carry them across the sea. Not that they’d have to rely solely on the power of the wind; there were a half-dozen oarholes coupled with rowing benches. 

“I could’ve lived out the rest of my days without seeing another oar,” Finan muttered bitterly as they finished their assessment of the vessel. 

Sihtric finished running his hand over the hull, the smoothness tickling his fingers. “I’ll take your shift for you.” 

Arching a brow, Uhtred leaned against the ship. “You? Out of everyone here, Sihtric, you are probably the least experienced with sailing.” His eyes narrowed skeptically on the teen. “Do you even know how to swim?” 

He felt his cheeks burn hot as even Clapa, damn him, looked over in amused curiosity. “Of-of course I know how to… I mean… It’s not _that_ difficult. I grew up with streams around Dunholm.” 

Uhtred chuckled. “Yes, the same streams that we walked our horses through.” 

“They get deeper in some parts!” 

“If ya can’t swim well or work an oar, ya should tell us now so we can teach ya before we leave,” Finan helpfully aided, though his own face was twisted into a mirthful smile. 

A Dane who couldn’t sail was like a bird that couldn’t fly. It just wasn’t the way the world worked, and to be dubbed useless on the sea was an insult. But Sihtric couldn’t even deny it. And so he was truthful. “Tekil never brought me to the sea. Any raids I helped him with were on lands. And… and even when I did travel to the coast to help with trade, I wasn’t exactly allowed time for games.” 

Smacking the hull a few times affectionately like an owner would pat his dog, Uhtred nodded. “Well, I do not think we have the time to teach you how to fully swim but rowing… we can show you that.” 

They spent the remainder of the daylight carrying the longship to the seaside and introducing her to the water. She took to it eagerly while her creators watched with their omnipresent scowls that lessened marginally. Sihtric was given full tutoring from those who knew the ways of the oars inside and out; Uhtred and Finan corrected his grip and taught him how to maneuver his body to protect himself against quick exhaustion and Clapa instructed him on the crew intervals that they’d be using. They wouldn’t be rowing constantly; that would make them collapse in pure fatigue before they even reached Ireland. They needed to be well rested and at their best when they reached Baile Loch Cuan, the coastal town on the northern edge of Ireland, just at the mouth of Loch Cuan. 

Their time in the shipwrighting village persisted longer than anticipated thanks to Uhtred and Beocca engaging the Danes in conversation about their fleet and inquiring on purchasing boats for Coccham. It was after nightfall and the stars had emerged among the blackened sky canvas by the time they decided to simply stay the night and return to Sutton in the morning to gather a couple more of Alfred’s soldiers to make the trip across the sea. 

“So that’s where you're hiding.” 

Sihtric was sitting in the longship tied off to the pier, flexing his fingers over the smooth oak oars for what felt like the hundredth time. Water gently lapped at the sides of the boat, making it sway sensually. The dock’s torches were unlit, leaving him and his surroundings in darkness. But the gentle glow from the village lights was enough to allow him to make out the very distinguishable shape striding down the dock towards him. 

“I was hoping I could try to get familiar with the boat before we leave,” he grinned tightly up at Finan. “Join me?” 

The Irishman hesitated. “Or ya can join me in the alehouse. I can’t understand half of ‘em in there and could use a translator. And some company.” 

The teen eyed the distance that was maintained between the longship and his lover. “You’ll need to get in this boat eventually, you know.” 

That made Finan sharply look away. And though it was dark, Sihtric saw the pain sharpen his features. “Eventually.” 

The Dane didn’t have the best sea legs but he was learning quickly. And he kept a fantastic balance as he stepped around the rowing bench and reached a hand out for the older warrior, beckoning him with a tempting smile. The dialed up boyish charm worked wonders, chasing away the nightmares that plagued Finan’s mind well enough to make him grudgingly close the gap and join him on the longship. 

“I hate this bloody boat.” 

Sihtric silently lowered himself into his lover’s lap as the Irishman rigidly sat down. A slender leg was draped on either side as he pressed his front against the older warrior, relishing the contagious comfort he got from him and hoping his own presence would soothe his worries. The Irishman’s strength, in both body and mind, was undeniable and the small glimpse of raw emotion only emboldened his power. 

“I told you that I’ll take your shift, Finan. You don’t have to relive that experience.” 

Calloused hands - scarred and roughened by the very object they were floating in - hungrily roamed over the young man’s body, following the delicious curve of his hip and keenly grabbing at his backside. “And I told ya that that’s not happening. If anything, I’ll take _your_ shift for ya. I just… all I have are bad memories on this bench.” 

Sihtric’s fingers found the laces on his lover’s breeches. “Then let’s make better ones.” 

One hand found the front of the Dane’s shirt, slowly drawing him in for a warm kiss to distract him, while the other carefully collected the wandering hand fighting with the laces. “No,” he murmured in a quiet voice heated with desire. But it was a desire different from the smoldering need that typically filled him when he fought to unrobe his younger lover. “I just want to be here with ya. Hold ya. That’s good enough memories for me.” 

The refusal didn’t hurt the Dane in any way, and he happily melted forward into another deep kiss, savoring the older man’s taste that mixed in perfectly with the salted air. He couldn’t blame him one bit for hating the bench; it was the same as if he were thrust back into Dunholm, forced to relive his days as a demeaning slave to his father’s men. The past was at their backs where they wanted it, but they were also making a trip that would place it in their future path. Scabbed wounds would be scratched, and how much they were reopened to fester and hurt was still a mystery. 

“When we get back from Ireland, I’m going to ask Uhtred if I can be with ya. Forever.” 

The teen laughed lightly. “We cannot get married.” 

“We can do something. Even if it’s picking and choosing some of your Danish customs, I want something for us. We deserve it.” 

Uhtred would say yes, that much Sihtric didn’t wonder about. But the logistics were messy and confusing. They were both males. Without a bride in the equation, half of the traditions were lacking an essential component. Not to mention, the major purpose of their unions was to produce offspring and future generations for villages. Arguably as important was the secondary purpose to intertwine two family units together into one, forging alliances and the like. As a slave, he was an article in Uhtred’s household and would therefore legally be obligating Uhtred to Finan’s family. 

Even if the logistics seemed infeasible and awkward, Sihtric placed his trust in Finan to see it through if he wanted it to. 

“When we get back,” Sihtric began with a warm smile, “we will do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During this time, slaves were common in Norse society. I wanted to try to capture this and shed a better light on their acceptance. It was not uncommon at all to meet a lord who had a dozen or so slaves or servants in his household. Some were treated better than others but typically conditions were deplorable compared to the other three societal ranks. Slaves were considered a crucial necessity to keep their societies functioning, and some historians have estimated up to 10-20% of their population were actually slaves. They were typically distinguished by their short hair and collars. I noticed Sihtric wearing a metal necklace at some point and splashed a bit of creative background on it. 
> 
> Sutton is located on the Wirral Peninsula. During this time, it was under Mercian rule and would see rapid change in acceptance with the Danes in the years to come thanks to Æthelflæd. The peace doesn't last, though, later on in the mid 10th century. But even today, there are heavy Scandinavian influences and customs that have survived in this region. 
> 
> Longships... This is probably my favorite feature to this story. Because when you think Vikings, you think of these badass longships that carried a horde of people and warriors. Which is... not entirely inaccurate but not quite to the level of heroics popularly depicted. Just how long did one longship take to make? Well, historians suggest a 30-meter longship, a skeið, took around 40,000 working hours in total. That's a lot of working hours, but that's also a fairly large warship (likely designed for transatlantic crossings or far raiding voyages). Even if we half that to a 15-meter longship, something more like the snekke, we're still looking at ~20k working hours. For one ship. No wonder ship building was an essential component boys were taught at an early age.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter but the next one is GOOD. I pinky promise.

The Irish Sea was a fickle mistress. Tucked between England and Ireland, the waters had first welcomed Uhtred’s longship in extremely tame and lifeless waves. They departed with the dramatic tide that carried them from the marshy banks out to the sea proper, the distance surprisingly much longer than the eastern coasts that Sihtric was used to. The waters seemed to be forever mild mannered so long as England’s coastline was in view, and as he took an oar, he prematurely - and stupidly - assumed his inaugural sail would be mundane and dull. 

How wrong he was. 

Once the seafloor dropped out from under them and strong westerly currents mixed, the waves turned chaotic and forceful. 

“I like that we can keep track of how long we’ve been sailing by how many times he’s vomited.” A baritone chuckle rumbed from the rowing bench. “He does it on the demi-hour.” 

“That’s enough, Clapa.” 

If Sihtric had more strength in him, he would’ve thanked Hild for snapping at the brawny Dane. But all his energy had fled him after the third hour, when he’d vomited for the sixth time over the side of the longship. The fierce waves had carried the sickness away in its foaming crests, mocking him gleefully. Sitting against the side with his legs stretched out in front of him, he begged his stomach to calm itself. But the constant rocking and sudden drops from the crashing waves stole his stability away from him. All he wanted was solid ground and the feeling of weightlessness to be gone. 

“Remove your tunic for me, please,” Hild’s voice took on a gentler tone as she pressed a damp cloth against his brow. “We need to cool you down.” 

The sounds of the oars splashing in the water were at least a good distraction for him. But he felt guilty that he had to abandon his post on the bench and didn’t see himself being able to pull his weight anytime soon. Clapa, finding his plight incredibly amusing, happily volunteered to row for the both of them. Maybe he was justified to continue to poke fun at his misfortune. 

He struggled to pull the leather armor and linen undershirt over his head, but an extra pair of hands helped him. Opening his eyes felt like an impossible feat, for the salt and exhaustion mixed to meld them shut. “How much longer?” 

With his eyes closed, he didn’t see Hild level him a sympathetic smile. Nor did he see Uhtred standing at his other side, looking down at him with a worried frown. “Not much,” she wringed a cloth drenched in sea water onto his naked collarbone, letting it drip down his front. “We’re almost there.” 

“I thought nuns weren’t supposed to lie.” 

“And I thought Danes were supposed to be seaworthy.” 

“Me too,” he groaned as their vessel battered against a particularly steep wave. “I blame my Saxon blood on this.” 

That earned some snickers from the handful of Alfred’s men that were chosen to accompany them in order to work the oars. So far, no one else seemed to suffer from seasickness like he did, even with the sea’s violence. He sensed movement on the other side of him as an extra presence hovered nearer. A curved flask was pressed to his parched lips, prompting him to try to instinctively draw back. But a strong hand - decidingly not Hild’s - held him still. 

“You need to drink,” Uhtred quietly urged. 

“I’ll just throw it up.” 

The older Dane nearly pointed out unhelpfully that the teen had just finished heaving over the side. And if he kept to his twice an hour vomiting schedule, he had a solid twenty or so minutes before his stomach would protest again. He instead tilted the water flask up amid the weak objections. 

In truth, while Clapa and Alfred’s men chuckled and laughed at Sihtric’s sickness, it wouldn’t serve them well. Beocca lingered near Hild, trying to distract the boy with conversation when he was awake, but he proved to not want to talk. What was rather amusing at first was quickly becoming a concern to Uhtred; he needed Sihtric at his best when they made landfall in Ireland, and dehydrated and spent from a full day and night at sea would cause him to be weak and lethargic before the most important part of their trip. 

He couldn’t afford to leave Sihtric in Baile Loch Cuan to recover; he was his best scout and spy, he needed him with him. 

As they pulled further out into the wild sea, the winds picked up. It was a blessing for those on the rowing bench, for they could draw the sail and give their muscles some much deserved rest. But for Sihtric, he groaned and cursed in colorful strings of Danish. The rowing crew returned to their periodic shifts when the winds died down; no one rowed for more than two hours before earning themselves a long spell of recovery. By the time the sun slipped beneath the dazzling horizon and darkness prevailed across the sea, the ship dined on salted jerky and ale and had another change at the oars. 

“Does it feel different to ya? Rowing?” 

Laying against the stern among a pile of skins and furs coated in animal fat to stave off water, Uhtred prodded his fingers against Sihtric’s neck and left Finan’s question untouched for a moment. He focused on the erratic pitter patter of the teen’s pulse, recalling how he’d check his own vitals when enslaved on the ship to determine the extent of his dehydration. Lucky for all of them, Sihtric’s exhaustion hit its peak and he fell asleep after managing some jerky morsels. He didn’t even stir as Coccham’s lord checked him over. “I am in control now. And that is what is different. The oars and the rowing?” He shook his head morosely. “It is all the same. They hit the water the same, splash the same, my muscles feel the same. Rowing was never the problem.” 

Behind the Irishman, those at the oars took to singing some alehouse songs. “It feels strange rowing back to the place that made me row in the first place. I swore on my father’s grave I wouldn’t see these lands again.” 

Uhtred chuckled softly and drew his fingers back from the Danish boy’s neck. “But your father still lives.” 

“Aye, he does. That’s why I feel ok breaking the oath now.” He nodded at Sihtric. “How is he?” 

“Warm.” The word came out bitterly. “He will need to drink more when he gets up.”

“I’m kind of hoping he stays asleep until we reach land. Or at least get closer.” Finan looked past the lip of the ship, into the abyssal darkness that swarmed around their vessel. Somewhere across the sea were the lands that cast him out after he gave so much to them. He told himself, and any who asked, that they meant nothing to him. His time to bleed and cry for Ireland had passed, and now he returned strictly out of duty for his lord. The pain that came from Ireland stung less, like a burn that had time to cool but never fully heal. He doubted that pain would ever heal, but he could distract himself with new pleasures and happiness. 

His eyes found Sihtric’s slumped over form. There was something to look forward to when he returned to Coccham; a new life in his new home with his lover. “Uhtred…” He inched himself closer and lowered his voice. It was difficult finding privacy on a longship, but the songs from the rowers had taken on a new volume, pitched high above the crashing of the waves. “I need to ask ya a question about ‘em.” 

Uhtred arched a brow. “You may.” 

“I…” How to start the conversation? Where to begin? Sihtric was right when he pointed out the glaring flaws in their plan. They were flaws that distracted the entire world from seeing the genuine love shared between them. And all anyone saw and focused on were those flaws. “I want to… I want your permission to…” 

His lord blinked slowly. “What you and him do in your home, in your own time, does not need my permission anymore. I have given it already. And if you are needing permission for a  _ specific _ act done in your home-” 

“No, no… Mother Mary, nothing like that.” Finan wet his lips. It actually would’ve been easier to ask permission for some kind of sexual act. He looked nervously between Sihtric’s sleeping face and Uhtred’s expectant one. “I want to have… I want to take ‘em as a lover for the rest of our days on this Earth. Ya know… Christ almighty, don’t make me actually say it.” 

“I think saying it would save both of us a lot of confusion.” 

Uhtred was a logical, good man with a good heart. Finan knew this. So why was he so nervous? Sihtric might be his slave, but he knew Uhtred rarely ever mistreated the boy, or rightfully treated him as a slave should be treated. He was given as much - if not more - liberties and freedoms than Uhtred’s other oathmen; Coccham’s lord and lady had grown increasingly fond of the young Dane, treating him as an extension of their family rather than an item that could be easily replaced. 

“I want to take ‘em as I would a spouse.” He watched understanding suddenly hit Uhtred, causing him to widen his eyes and stare at the Irishman. The start of a smirk made Finan roll his eyes in return. Of course the bastard would smile. “I know that we can’t get… nothing legally binding, mind. But I want to do something. He… He means a lot to me.” 

That much Uhtred knew without debate. And as much as he wanted to tease his second-in-command for his sudden flare of sentimentality, he managed to stay serious. It was important to him. “If it is not legal, you do not need my permission for anything.” He shrugged. “If you want, when we get back, we can make arrangements for the both of you to have a celebration. And feasting.” He grinned wide. “We will have to teach you about Danish feasting and some of our customs.” 

Finan’s heart soared, making him chuckle whimsically. Maybe Ireland wouldn’t be so bad now that he had a goal to strive towards. “Like the one that has ya watching us fuck?” 

The Dane laughed back. “If you want the moon of honey mead, yes.” 

“Fine but if ya say one comment during it I will punch ya in your bloody neck.”


	5. Chapter 5

Calling Baile Loch Cuan a full-fledged village felt too generous a word. At least for the Saxons and Danes who were unfamiliar with the Irish way of life. For Finan, he understood the dinghy homesteads hugging the sea and steep stone walls diving into the water were the norm for Ulaid’s coastal settlements, especially in Dál Fiatach. As they navigated the longship around the few vessels moored in the narrow bay, he was expecting a worse reaction from the citizens; they were, after all, approaching in a Danish traditional boat. And considering they were being hailed to save the people from the antagonistic Danes, he wouldn’t be the least surprised if they were met with aggression and the dockhands refusing them entrance.

But that didn’t happen. Nothing happened. 

Luckily, the remaining trip across the Irish Sea had been much less eventful than the first half. Sihtric’s body was stubborn to acclimate to the constant battering of the waves, but too exhausted to put up much more of a fight. He’d managed to drink and eat, and surprised them all when he kept the food down. Maybe his Danish blood was just slow to rouse from its dormant state. Maybe it sensed the approach of new lands and finally stirred to life. 

It was late morning by the time they jumped out of the longboat at a dock and tied off the dragon-headed stem from stern to bow. The dock creaked and groaned under the weight, and a small section entirely collapsed when Clapa stepped down on it, his foot almost sent splashing into the murky waters. The dilapidated, rotting state was their first taste of Ireland and it already had a foul flavor. 

After helping to make sure the boat was secured, Finan turned around to feast his eyes on his homelands. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting but Baile Loch Cuan was not it. 

“Do you see that?” 

Finan hooked a brow up and glanced over at Uhtred grazing his eyes around the small village. “I don’t see anything.” 

“Exactly.” 

The Irish coastal settlement was quiet, so quiet that the sounds of their Saxon soldiers bragging to each other at how long they rowed, and Beocca and Hild checking with Sihtric to make sure he was well, was incredibly loud. It made the background seem silent; it was late morning, at the time when merchants ought to be haggling with visiting sailors, and blacksmiths hammering away at their forge, and women fretting over the price of grain in the market, and children running full of energy down the streets. 

But there was nothing. They saw no one. At least, not from the dock. 

The homesteads were simple one or two story structures made of daub and wattle. Sihtric placed an uneasy hand on the hilt of his sword as they abandoned the longship at the dock, Uhtred having assigned the Saxon soldiers to guard it, and stepped into the heart of the village. The buildings, now closer to inspect them, were falling apart. Pieces of the structures had cracked and chipped away, some sections of roofing had completely collapsed in, and they cried for desperate repairs. Coastal towns were typically the more wealthy ones having seen a steady flow of export and import commerce, and being able to set the price for the goods. But this settlement was a far cry from affluent. 

Sihtric almost asked if this was the norm for Ireland. Maybe they were in worse shape than he expected. But when he turned to ask his lover, the stricken look on Finan’s face told him that something was very wrong. 

“There! A man! I just saw a man go into that building!” Beocca pointed to a slender one-story dwelling with a rotted wall. 

They wordlessly created a formation: Uhtred and Finan at the front, their weapons already drawn; Sihtric, Hild, and Beocca in the middle; and Clapa’s tower figuring in the back with his axe casually balanced on his shoulder. The door to the building was hanging precariously, barely even attached, and swung with a high pitched whimper as Uhtred opened it. 

It was dark inside. It took Sihtric’s eyes longer than expected to adjust to the darkness, and he initially assumed there were no windows. He later realized that the windows were boarded shut from the inside and covered with heavy canvas to stop any flow of light. When his eyes did adjust, he blinked at the small chamber cluttered with broken furniture over a dirt floor. A middle aged man stood before a meager hearth that was half the size of the one in his and Finan’s home, holding some kind of carpenter tool in his hand. It was difficult to see through the darkness and heavy layer of dust in the air, but movement behind the man made Sihtric ready his own sword… until he found the movement was a woman in a threadbare shawl huddling two red-haired children against her chest, muttering to them in hushed, worried tones. 

The man shook his head frantically and spoke in fast, distressed lines of Gaelic. He looked sharply from each of them, his fear so concentrated that Sihtric felt honorless being armed against the Irishman. 

Uhtred seemed to think the same, for he lowered his weapon. “What is he saying, Finan?” 

Finan was already exchanging rapid Gaelic back, his brows creased up in a pacifying manner. “He… He says that he has no food or shelter to offer us. Says the village has given everything already. I told him that we don’t need any and asked ‘em where the elder of the village is.” 

The hair on the back of Sihtric’s neck felt stiffened and raised. He didn’t like not being able to understand the language, but it seemed the man was just as confusing to Finan as well. His lover’s questioning tone suggested that there was something not comprehended well between them. However, there was one Gaelic term Sihtric knew well; it was the same term of endearment Finan teasingly used when feigning exasperation for something he did around Coccham.

“ _Na Dúghaill_?” Finan asked in a pressing, urgent voice. _Danes_. 

The man frenziedly shook his head. “ _Ní, na Dúghaill…. Ní, na Dúghaill._ ” 

The rest of the Gaelic was drowned out and left to fall into the background as Sihtric felt a heavy stare drilling into him. His hand idly found his blade as he turned around and looked through the home’s open doorway, hoping it was nothing more than the village’s nightmarish charm playing tricks on him. 

A chill froze his blood as he locked eyes with a tall, blonde-haired Dane across the courtyard. Neither one moved for a few seconds as time stopped existing. He was heavily armed with a thick blade any warrior would be proud of, though it remained untouched at his hip. The other Dane was the first to move; he sharply turned and took off running in the opposite direction. 

“Uhtred! A Dane!” He acted on instinct - knowing the precarious situation they placed themselves in should the Dane manage to notify others of their presence - and sprinted after the man. They didn’t have the manpower or ability to fight off an army, or even a small scouting party. They were given the bare minimum to make the crossing and assess the situation in Ireland; not to engage. The landscape and people were foreign to them, they had no recourse should they be outnumbered and overpowered, and finding themselves at the mercy of the Danes before they reached Ráth Celtchair would spell disaster for them. 

“Go! Follow him!” 

At his back, Sihtric heard the other’s racing after him, but his lithe stature served him well; he was fast and agile, and flew across the courtyard and into the treeline where he last saw the Dane disappear. Despite the gap that widened between him and his companions, he didn’t slow or stop, only listened to the fervent pulse filling his ears and darted his eyes around the thick brush around him. Movement was all he needed to see to chase in a particular direction, following the distinctive sound of someone cutting through branches and leaves in a frenzied hurry. 

The chase continued for a while; he wasn’t even sure how long. His lungs burned and ached, and he became mutedly aware that he was near a body of rushing water. The forest grew wilder and thicker, undoubtedly picked by the fleeing Dane to hide from his pursuers who were unfamiliar with its cloaking qualities. 

Or so that’s what he thought. He realized his mistake far too late. 

Sihtric skidded to an abrupt halt as he nearly tumbled face first into a deep ravine that fed into a narrow, heavily flowing river. Swinging his arms rapidly and grabbing at a low hanging branch, he managed to save himself at the last second, his own momentum almost his undoing. The spot wasn’t randomly chosen; no, a Dane knew how to manipulate the battlefield in their favor. And Sihtric had walked right into it. 

He pulled his sword just in time when he heard the distinctive song of steel swinging through the air. 

His blade clashed with the impressive, broad sword of another, the power behind it forcing him on his backfoot within seconds. Gritting his teeth, he glared up at the blonde-haired Dane looming above him. His height was massive and his shoulders broadened the figure of a proud warrior. There was an air of authority about him, the type that even gave Sihtric a pause and made him question his prowess against the man. 

“What is your name, boy? Were you sent from Dyflin?” 

Sihtric drew his sword back sharply and cut a dramatic arc to try to regain some kind of upperhand. It was met with a perfectly timed parry, his opponent’s thick blade expertly catching onto the edge of his weapon and using the moment of surprise to kick the teen sharply in his stomach. 

Wet leaves clumped around him as he fell to his back with a low grunt. He heard familiar voices calling nearby but couldn’t make out who it was or the direction it was coming from. They were close… 

The tip of a blade pressed against the hollow of his neck as he began to push himself back up, feeling the wet earth cling to his vest. “Answer me, boy.” 

The teen’s sword hung limply in his hand but not abandoned. He wasn’t prepared to accept defeat. Not yet. Not like this. Looking up and down the Dane, he took in the finely woven leather armor emboldened with the design of Thor’s hammer on the front, the craftsmanship speaking of the man’s influence and wealth. His long blond hair was partially pulled back into a half-ponytail, the top criss-crossed in exotic braids decorated with silver beads likely worth his entire wergild. His eyes were a strikingly crystal clear blue that seemed genuinely curious, almond shaped and narrowed down on him. But what stood out the most was his jawline. It was sharp and angular. 

“Sihtric!” 

They both jerked their heads in the direction of Uhtred’s voice, but Sihtric was the first to monopolize on it. He kicked a leg out at the older man, striking him below the knee and earning him enough time to roll out of reach from the sword. 

Slash. Parry. “Sihtric, is it?” 

Riposte. Dodge. “It doesn’t matter.” 

The older Dane smirked. “So he does speak.” 

For every advance Sihtric made, the man had a defense for it. He made it look incredibly simple, as if Sihtric was nothing more than a fly buzzing around his head and he was casually swatting it away. And it became suddenly obvious that the older Dane, besides initiating the attack, hadn’t actually tried to gain an offensive position. Not once did he use that incredible sword to swing down on him, to try to cleave him in half or run him through. And with that realization came another that he wasn’t trying to actually win the fight; he was only delaying it. 

He heard his name called again, this time closer and by Finan, his lover’s voice giving him renewed vigor. Him and Uhtred must’ve been together. If they got there soon, they could overpower the man, capture him, and use him for leverage or information on the assault at the monasteries. Maybe he was even instrumental to them. 

“Sihtric, son of…?” 

The teen replied automatically, not thinking: “Kjartansson of Dunholm.”

Everything suddenly happened at once. Finan and Uhtred burst through the brush on an elevated slope a short distance away, distracting the two sparring Danes at the worst possible time. The broad sword swung heavily with the intent of parrying another of Sihtric’s missed swings, but was mistimed and misangled. It swung instead fatally towards the boy, the immense blade glimmering under the low-hanging sun. And it would’ve cut cleanly through him shoulder to hip if he didn’t wildly jump back to avoid it. 

He never regained his footing; his back foot slipped over the ravine’s edge. 

His hands wildly grabbed for anything that’d save him, but only air filled his palms. That horrible feeling of weightlessness returned to him in full force, a nauseating, panicky feeling as the blonde Dane, Finan, and Uhtred all grew more and more distant as he fell. The weightlessness was replaced by a sudden consuming pain as his body crashed and rolled down the earth and rocks, the world turning into a violent clash of colors and shapes. The sound of Finan’s screaming voice became fainter as rushing water grew closer and closer until his head smashed against a rock and his world went black. 

But for Finan, his world was on fire. His entire world was gone. 

“Sihtric!” He acted on pure adrenaline and panic, ignoring the threat the steep ravine posed and only focusing on getting to the river that coursed through it. The river that Sihtric had fallen into. 

“Finan, no!” 

A strong hand grabbed him by the back of his vest and roughly yanked him back just as he nearly vaulted himself down the slope, into the field of rocks and stumps and fallen trees that surely would’ve shattered some of his bones. But he didn’t care; he only thought of Sihtric’s body skidding along the river bed, drowning and bleeding out. His lover needed him most and he couldn’t get to him. “Uhtred! We need to get down there!” 

Uhtred had to physically wrestle the ailing Irishman to the ground, dragging him bodily away from the dangerous edge, and shake him roughly. “Finan! You are no good to him dead! We will-” 

“Look!” 

Snapping his head to the side, Uhtred loosened his grip lightly as he watched a half-dozen Danes emerge down the small river bank at the bottom of the ravine on the opposite side of them. Sometime during the wrestling one must have jumped into the river, for they were wadding out of its depths carrying an unmoving Sihtric. Though they were speaking, he couldn’t make out what they were saying, but he could tell they were checking the unconscious teen as they huddled around him. 

“If they wanted him dead, they would not have gotten him out,” he reassured Finan with a strong clasp on his shoulder. It also served to hold him in place. “We cannot fight these Danes right now, Finan. We will get help from Ráth Celtchair or Alfred’s men and come back for him.” 

He felt the body tense under his fingers as the Danes carefully hoisted Sihtric’s listless body and carried him off into the forest. The Dane that had been fighting the teen was gone, using the chaos as a means to slip away. And as he watched Finan drop his head in defeat, Uhtred would later look back at that moment as the turning point when everything began to fall apart.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for following this story! Please enjoy!

Leaving Sihtric was the hardest thing Finan had to do in a long time. And as he’d angry wiped the moisture collecting in the corner of his eyes, it pained him even more to admit the logic in Uhtred’s plan. They were outnumbered and overpowered; running headfirst into a thick Danish settlement teeming with battle-hardened warriors wouldn’t save Sihtric. They’d likely lose their lives in the process. No, the most sensible plan was to make the short trip to Ráth Celtchair and gather enough forces from his father’s men to launch an assault on the Danish settlement. With Alfred responding to their monasteries plea for assistance and willingness to fight the Danes, getting Sihtric back would fall perfectly in line with it. All they needed was to get Alfred’s soldiers to cross the Irish Sea and join his father’s legions to finally put a stop to the Dane’s terrorizing reign. 

Sensible plans were the most difficult to hatch when love and panic gripped one’s heart. Time was the cruelest of enemies, allowing the imagination to rampantly conjure ghoulish images and nightmarish assumptions. 

It had taken an incredible dose of courage for him to ask Uhtred the question that stalked him: “Will they kill ‘em?”

And Uhtred had shaken his head sadly and only repeated the same thing he said before: “If they wanted him dead, they would have left him in the river.”

The closer they got to Ráth Celtchair and the greater the distance they placed between them and Sihtric, the more Finan grieved for his lover. Would they treat him unkindly? Subject him to inhumane torture and new levels of pain? They were Danes that garnered a cruel reputation enough to warrant God’s men to beg their distant neighbors for assistance. These weren’t Danes known for their mercy and leniency; they were monsters who brutalized anything in their paths. 

Him and Sihtric were supposed to be celebrating their union when they got back. And he’d never even had the chance to tell Sihtric that Uhtred agreed to it. His lover would never know. 

The Irish countryside brought a torrent of memories to Finan, some good and others bad. He remembered passing by the golden grain fields on his way to the coast, where his father and brother damned him to a life at the oars. He remembered taking the roads hastily on horseback, leaving an explosion of dust in his wake on his way to his father’s castle to tell him the news of the arriving Danes. That was what started everything. Danes. It was always Danes. 

Ráth Celtchair had a decently sized village surrounding it, the citizens a harmonious mixture of nobles and peasants. Dál Fiatach’s capital and the seat of their royalty saw tremendous wealth and trade; it was where laws were created, news first reached, and innovative wares were sold from the east. It was arguably one of the most affluent settlements in Dál Fiatach and, as far as Finan remembered, had always seemed to have a buzz of excitement. 

Finan hardly recognized it when they breached the gates, welcomed in by a skeptical guard. He stiffened when looking at the two Danes in their fold, but the presence of a priest was enough to convince him they meant no harm. 

The streets and merchant lanes were empty. Only broken down carts, empty and naked of goods, stood like phantoms of what should’ve been a bustling commerce district. The homes were dreary and dark, windows boarded up from the inside and all the doors shut. Every so often they would see a lone citizen scurrying through dusty paths with a shocking rush of urgency, and so thin they looked like an animated corpse, clothing hanging off of their skeleton frame. And though Finan had tried to talk with them, no one returned his greetings or questions. 

They ran from him in fear. 

“Something’s not right,” he mumbled to Uhtred when they finally came upon the dark-stoned castle nestled in the heart of the village. There were no Danes there, and Ráth Celtchair didn’t teeter on the coast shared with the pagan conquerors like Baile Loch Cuan did. Had the Danes marched so far inland to threaten the very gem of their kingdom? Were they too late and had his family been killed and the Danes truly taken their lands? 

No. They wouldn’t have allowed the guards to remain. And as they approached the castle and were immediately flanked by a dozen warriors, it was at least obvious that Dál Fiatach was still under Irish rule. 

Lucky for them, the guards spoke English, proving their proficiency with the language as they engaged Uhtred and Beocca in heated conversation as to the purpose of their visit. They insisted they arrived at the behest of King Alfred of Wessex, acting under his protection and speaking for his voice, but the guards stubbornly insisted that they were not allowed to see the king. It took Beocca to show the guards the letter from Brother Líadan and the Holy Seal of the Celtic Cross to grudgingly convince the guards to allow them audience in the petitioner’s chamber. 

The castle wasn’t anything like Alfred’s palace, and it hadn’t changed a bit, Finan bitterly concluded as they traveled through the dark, gloomy corridors swarming with shadows. Sconces and lanterns afixed on the wall every so often fed them just enough light to see their next few steps, but hardly bright enough to provide a warming welcome. There were very few windows, and the ones that did exist were small and only big enough to allow a bowman’s upper torso through. 

The castle was a fortress first and a residence second. It was built for security; not for luxury. 

It was his home. In another lifetime, he’d raced through the same corridors as a boy with a wooden sword, engaging his brother in play fights and taking a gallant swing at any soldier he passed. He was a different person then, had a different name and title, and placed Ireland’s welfare far above his own. He’d grown up in the corridors and emerged a strong warrior and proud man, unbreakable even under the crash of a slaver’s whip. 

He kept his head raised just as high with Uhtred as he did when he bore the prince title. No one could take his honor and pride from him. 

As the guard detail grew thicker, he knew they were closer to his father’s public receiving hall. It was the same chamber that served as the feasting hall and political assemblies, the room repurposed by changing the furniture. The guards, thankfully, did not recognize Finan. If they did, they made no mention of it to him. The guards were a curious sort, and the longer Finan studied them the more his unease grew. Unlike the decrepit and unkempt villagers they passed, the warriors were well-built and strong with high polished leather jerkins accented in expensive red filigree. 

“His Lord will see you now.” 

The hall was narrow and elongated to intimidate those at the foot of the throne. But none in their party - Uhtred, Finan, Clapa, Beocca, and Hild - let themselves get disarmed by the spell. Finan had approached his father’s throne plenty of times before as the commander of the forces in the north, or as acting Crown Prince coming to attend to his king’s wishes. The room had once filled him with duty and obligation, and now he only felt seething anger. 

For it wasn’t his father sitting on the elevated throne, but his brother. 

Conall mac Áedo, a few years and inches shy of Finan, placed his elbow on his crossed knee as he keenly leaned forward, barking a humorless laugh as their party drew closer. His hair was kept shortly cut to his head in a style similar to Finan’s, and even shared the same full beard that covered his entire lower jaw and curled upper lip. The family resemblance was indisputable at a physical glance, but the emotion that filled their gazes couldn’t be more different. 

“ _Finan! An tú féin atá ann?_ ”

Out of respect for his companions, Finan replied in English. “Aye, it’s really me.” 

The unruly arrogance on the Irish prince surprised Uhtred more than it should’ve. His mind’s eye had imagined a war-torn nation on the brink of collapse from the Danes, and figured their royalties attitudes would follow a similar vein. The tension in the room was almost thick enough to slice with a sword, and he had no interest in testing its durability. “I am Uhtred of Bebbanburg, sent as King Alfred’s oathman to answer a call to arms from a monastery under King Ainbíth mac Áedo.” He blinked and looked around in a much more dramatic display than probably needed. “I am to have an audience with your king.” 

“I am Conall mac Áedo, crown prince of Dál Fiatach.” It looked like it pained Conall to abandon his beady-eyed glare on Finan to glance idly at Uhtred. At the mention of the king, his smirk returned. “Speak your business to me, Dane.” 

Uhtred’s spine stiffened, as did his words. “I will speak my business to the King.” 

“Then ya will not speak at all,” the Prince atop the throne snapped. “The King is unwell with sweating sickness. He cannot hold court, and hasn’t for some time. Either ya speak what ya came here for, or I’ll have all of ya arrested for invading my lands. And have ‘em killed.” He jerked his head in Finan’s direction. 

The tension rose considerably. Sensing it, and knowing Uhtred’s low tolerance for nobility, Beocca cleared his throat and lifted the neatly folded letter from the Irish monk. “God is ever good and I shall pray for your king’s health. But King Alfred has pledged to assist one of your monasteries against the Danes.” He flashed a helpful, warm smile. “King Alfred is here to answer the plea from your Men of God and provide you warriors.” 

Not bothering to rise from the throne, Conall signaled one of the guards to get the letter and bring it to him. The frown on his face only deepened as he hastily read it, occasionally leveling a look of contempt and curiosity over the edge of the parchment at Uhtred and Finan. “Well,” he didn’t hand the letter back to the guard; instead, he merely folded it up and discarded it down at Beocca’s feet with a flick of his wrist. “Your king is more foolish than his name would imply. Alfred the Wise. I don’t know who wrote ya that letter but that monastery is one of our richest and, as of a few days ago, fully standing. It hasn’t seen a Dane for years.” 

Uhtred and Finan exchanged a dark look. But it was the former that cut in before Beocca could. “That cannot be right. Who else would send this letter? And why?” 

The prince shrugged indifferently. “Questions that should be answered by your king.” He grinned tightly. “I apologize but ya have made the trip for nothing. I suggest ya go back to whatever port ya pulled into and float back to your ever wise king. I’ll even be generous about it - ya got a day to get out of my kingdom. After that, if I see ‘em,” he looked briefly at Finan, “he will be killed. Understood?” 

No. Uhtred wouldn’t accept that. “The Danes are stripping your lands and starving your people! Are you so prideful to let them die when we are here to help you?” 

“The Danes have been put in their place!” Conall half-shouted back in the same tantruming tone Finan had heard him use so many years ago when he’d lose at their games. “Dál Fiatach is doing what England has failed at for years. We’re not giving ‘em land like your Alfred has done - we’re defeating ‘em entirely!”

“Really?” Uhtred laughed in agitated amusement. “And when do you plan on doing that? Before or after your people are dead?” 

“Soon, actually,” the prince’s upper lip snarled up as he practically spit out his words. “We’ll be defeating the northern kingdom, Dál nAraidi, in a crucial battle at the next full moon. Once we have their resources and people, the Danes won’t stand a chance against us. Ulaid will be free from Danish influence and Dál Fiatach will remain Ulaid’s king. Maybe even more if South Ireland can’t get their lands back from the Danes. High Kingship belongs in Ulaid and to me.” 

Something broke in Finan. A perfectly constructed dam he’d built over the years at the oar, the impenetrable wall used to hold all of his memories and love of Ireland far away from him. He’d sacrificed everything for his people to give them a chance of a good life; of wealth, education, and prospering. He’d bled and shed tears for her lands and was prepared to do more when his time came to take his father’s place on the throne. And he’d collected that love for his people and hid it far, far away behind the wall.

How fickle life was; it took him years to build that dam, and it came falling apart in mere seconds. 

“You are not king!” He roared in a clamoring tone that struck at the heart of everyone in the room, Conall and Uhtred both flinching in tandem. “What are ya doing, Conall?! How can ya let the Danes do this? _Ya_ were the one who convinced father not to fight ‘em in the first place and now look! People are dying in their homes because of-” 

“The Danes have not touched our lands or people! I have done more than ya would ever have! _I_ have ambition and drive! _I_ will defeat Dál nAraidi _and_ banish the Danes! _I_ will be High King!”

A heavy silence fell on all of them. So heavy and profound that it weighed worldly on their shoulders. Finan felt his pulse rapidly thunder in his neck. In the corner of his eye, he saw Uhtred’s fingers drum at his palm, the precursor to him reaching for his sword. 

Finan spoke in a voice just barely above a whisper. “If the Danes are not touching our lands and people, who is, Conall?” 

The castle’s coldness suddenly felt more frigid, matching the prince’s dry laugh as he gestured to the guards. “Sacrifices, dear brother, must be made for the good of our kingdom. And that is why ya were never meant for the throne.” A hand bedazzled in jeweled rings waved through the air. “See ‘em out of the village entirely. And I mean it, Finan. Ya have one day to get off our lands. I’ll get no greater enjoyment than watching ya executed.” 

They had no choice but to follow the guards out of the castle and through Ráth Celtchair with bruised moods and unanswered questions. Sihtric was still captured with the Danes, and without the aid of his father’s or Alfred’s forces, Finan had no chance of getting him back. Nor was there any feasible way they were getting Sihtric back in the day’s allowance. 

As they were leaving the capital, they stopped briefly to watch a woman beg and plead with one of the soldiers - an Irish guard wearing his family’s crest - as he ripped her sack of grain from her desperate, starved hands. 

Uhtred turned to them. “We are going to this monastery.”


	7. Chapter 7

_Nightfall in Dunholm was a dangerous yet freeing time. The daytime hours were filled with chores and grueling tasks, even the warriors set about to complete responsibilities needed to keep their fortress running smoothly. Dunholm garnered a prize-worthy reputation as being impenetrable thanks to Kjartan’s innovative plans for it, and his constant drive to always have his warriors prepared for assaults. Eventually, their neighbors, even the fearsome_ _Ælfric of Bebbanburg, went through pains to avoid Dunholm’s surrounding lands. Kjartan earned his reputation as “the Cruel” at the same brisk pace Dunholm received hers._

_At night, though, when the sun collapsed beneath the horizon and a new choir of insects and birds took to the ranks to sing their nocturnal songs, Dunholm became alive. The mood shifted dramatically, warriors hanging up training swords and abandoning the courtyards in favor of the main hall where fountains of ale and expensive wine flowed. There was a small window of rare opportunity for a slave to travel Dunholm’s draconian public spaces without fearing for their welfare; the warriors needed to be tipsy enough to desire more alcohol and chase after an intoxicated state, but not so far gone that they wandered around in search of the pleasures of flesh. That was a dangerous time to be out._

_Sihtric had waited in the shadows of an overhang near the east inner ward, a courtyard that had once been a thriving garden decades ago and had long seen its glory days. Sprigs of fragrant fennel and lilies still grew on the small patches of grass that were untouched from the warriors clamoring feet. The flowers would bloom and fill the ward that had been reduced to dirt and repurposed into a training field. Wood dummies for swordsmen and targets arranged for bow practice sat where beds of violets and roses once grew. That was another time, before the Danes stole the flower’s graceful glory and spread their deadening influence over the lands._

_The roars of laughter from the hall came easy and fast now. And loud. It was the signal to the eight-year-old Sihtric that they’d passed into that small window of opportunity when he could do what he pleased without a barking order being leveled his way. He inched out from the shadows into the deserted courtyard, immediately making his way to the rack of wooden training swords. His mother had been hailed by his father to attend him, and given they were celebrating a successful raid in the north, he doubted she’d be released from him before the morning. He always required her overnight in his chambers when they had a lucrative raid of exotic goods and hoards of silver._

_He gave a quick glance over the rack and quickly selected the largest - and heaviest - sword among the collection. If he wanted to be the best warrior in the whole world, starting small wouldn’t get him anywhere. He was already nearing his ninth summer, and time was of the essence if he wanted to become a celebrated, famous fighter fierce enough to earn his and his mother’s freedom._

_Not to mention, when he’d secretly watch the warriors during the day, most of them favored the broader weapons to match their brawny stature. Rarely did he see any prefer the more slender blades, and so he had little instruction on their use._

_The sword was incredibly long and heavy for him, but he persevered and found his place in front of a faceless target. He waited for a round of drunken laughter and jeers to pitch high into the night before advancing, allowing his sword swings and small battle cry to be drowned out by the intoxicated men. When he’d first started sneaking out to the training courtyard, he found it difficult to time his sword swings and maneuvers with the drunken stanzas, using them to mask unpermitted, impromptu training. Now, he had fallen into a comfortable routine, using the quieter moments to catch his breath and try his best to replicate their grip on his pommel._

_But try as his might, the sword was not only ill-fitted for a child, but it was far too large for his build._

_It didn’t take long for his muscles to begin to ache and protest, as they always did soon enough. Yet he pushed through it, imagining the small wooden benches around him filled with spectators cheering him on as he won against his wooden opponent. But it wasn’t wooden anymore. It was a large man from the east, covered in glittering iron armor while Sihtric boldly remained armorlessly. His opponent, a famous fighter just like him, had come to the ring to emerge a rich victor, lavished and covered in silver - and gold, even! - and all of the food and wine that he could ever possibly want. But Sihtric was just as famous with his own entourage of followers and fans that cheered his name._

_Months ago, a traveling theatre troupe performed for Dunholm, speaking of Roman fighters that won bloody spars against tigers and bands of men. The play’s plot had been lost on the child, but the pure celebration of the acted fights and how much they were treated like celebrities intrigued him. Tekil, one of his father’s warriors that showed a rare warmth to the boy, had chuckled when the youth pressed him for information on its accuracy. And when he shrugged and confirmed it, Sihtric’s eyes had widened in glee. He had a goal. Little did he know that the era for gladiatorial rings had long passed._

_A cramp started to squeeze his bicep but he pushed through it as he swung the sword wildly overhead. A bruise would be there come the next day. It was worth it to see a spray of timber splinters fly off the wooden dummy._

_He’d lost track of how long he’d been training. The blade’s size began to mock him; it was always awkward to try the maneuvers he saw the warriors do during the day, their glistening muscles tense as they made it look so easy. But it wasn’t for a child. And Sihtric fought feverishly to try to keep at it._

_Physical pain was something he accepted as all warriors did; he wouldn’t let his precious training time get interrupted from his body’s protest. But he fought against the urge to flee when he first felt a pair of eyes watching him. He tried not to make it obvious that he knew he was being watched, casually glancing around himself everytime he took a swing or pretend to untangle the hem of his thin linen vest. But all he saw was darkness around him and the continued cacophony of drunken men._

_Heavily swinging the blade against the dummy, it embedded itself into the crook of its narrow arm, timbers clinging to timbers and stubbornly resisting the boy’s attempt to pull it free. Behind him, he heard slow footsteps approaching, making him yank at the sword more frantically. How could he explain this to someone? The sword wouldn’t have just happened to fall into the dummy and get stuck. If he was stronger, older, bigger, he could’ve freed it without breaking a sweat and panicking at getting caught._

_Suddenly, his world of makebelieve shattered like glass. The benches returned to being vacant and empty, his opponent became a comatose piece of wood, and he was no longer the celebrated fighter pampered in riches. He was back to being Sihtric the slaveboy, filled with an interesting combination of dogged determination and fear._

_The footsteps were close - within arms reach - just as Sihtric finally managed to liberate the sword from the dummy with a powerful jerk. His triumph was short lived. The sudden shift of momentum made him lose his balance and fall to his back, his fingers slipping off the heavy sword. The powers of the world conspired against him and he could only helplessly grimace as he watched the weapon fall towards him._

_Eyes squeezed shut, he waited for the sharp pain to hit him. Wooden and not steel, it likely wouldn’t break any skin, but it could fracture bones and leave a field of bruising. But pain never came. The blade never fell._

_Cracking his eyes open, he took in a small breath as he stared at the sword impossibly hovering in the air directly above him as if enchanted. But no. Not hovering. Not of its own accord. A strong hand with long, deft fingers curled around the blade. He followed the hand to an arm decorated in a tanned leather bracer with expensive silver clasps, and finally up to the owner staring down at him with a single brow raised._

_“We have been wondering why some of the weapons have turned dull.” Kjartan smirked and stood up to his full height that towered over the boy, turning the wooden blade a few times in his much more able hands. “I suppose I have found our culprit.”_

_Panic shot through him as he scrambled up to his feet, falling a few times in the process from his ailing nerves. “I’m-I’m sorry, lord. I did not…” He couldn’t lie. He’d been caught in the act. And the rules - ones which strictly stated no slaves were permitted around weapons unless given permission - were set and enforced by none other than the very man who caught him: his father. “I am sorry, lord. I will… I will accept my punishment, lord.”_

_He flinched and closed his eyes, waiting for a fist to strike him. When that didn’t come, his mind conjured up all of the horrible punishments he’d seen other, albeit older, slaves be subject to: whippings, beatings by multiple warriors, shaming, attacks by vicious dogs…_

_Kjartan’s low chuckle made him snap his eyes open. “I think you’ve punished yourself by using this.” And though the older Dane lifted up the wooden blade, he wasn’t looking at it. He was intensely studying Sihtric._

_Did he notice their undeniable shared qualities? The sharp, angular jawline Sihtric had inherited from his father, or the similar shapes of their eyes. Kjartan, though, for his part, had long ago taken notice of the features his bastard child had adopted from him. It was almost amusing how his two sons had seemingly cherrypicked which attributes they adopted, for rarely did they share any. Sven undoubtedly took after his father with his bulky build and looming height, while Sihtric - even as a boy of eight summers - was slim and short. If Sven inherited Kjartan’s telltale defined jawline, no one could tell under the pudgy fat that filled out his face thanks to his overindulgence._

_Kjartan stopped lingering on the shared physicalities; Sihtric was his, even if he refused to acknowledge him as his legal son. Let him remain with his mother; it was her wish, after all. And since showing her a rare form of clemency and agreeing to it when he was born, he had immediately begun to divorce himself from any paternal feelings with the child. A man - especially a Dane - treasured all of the sons that he could get, even if whelped in a slave girl. Kjartan had planned on taking him too, just as fiercely as he took Dunholm, but_ [ _Elflæ_ ](https://the-last-kingdom.fandom.com/wiki/Elfl%C3%A6d?veaction=edit&redlink=1) _d had begged him and he was agreeable to give her that one thing._

_Flipping the sword a few times in his hand, making it look deceptively easy to Sihtric, Kjartan glanced between the boy and the training dummy. “How long have you been doing this?”_

_Sihtric was sure his hammering heart would burst from his chest. “Lord?”_

_“Coming out here. Training like this. Almost getting yourself impaled by your own weapon.”_

_Once again, he found himself unable to lie. Wooden blades had the inconvenient knack of getting easily indented and worn down. They acted like parchment, every knick and dent bruised into its surface to be easily seen. “I don’t know, lord. I have lost count. Since… since the end of winter.”_

_His father nodded. “Several months. Good for you for getting away with it for so long.”_

_Sihtric flinched and looked down at his hands covered in budding blisters and bruises. He’d have to wrap them in the morning to keep them from bursting when he did his chores. He wanted nothing more than to flee from the courtyard and run back to the small storeroom he shared with his mother, even if she wouldn’t be there. He was safe in it. “I am sorry and-and it will not happen again, lord. I promise you that. I was stupid to do this, lord.”_

_A hum rumbled above him, sounding either amused, contemplating, or a mixture of both. “That much you are right about. Why you chose a weapon almost as large as you only speaks of your inexperience and stupidity.” The insulting words should’ve wounded Sihtric more than they did, but they weren’t intended to. Not from the light, mirthful voice they were carried in. He looked up curiously to see Kjartan approach the rack of weapons, returning the sword to its rightful spot and grabbing a much lighter, narrower blade. “You have the heart of a warrior, even if you do not have the body of one. Do not fight against what the Gods have given you. Your focus in a battle should be against the line running at you, not at taming your own body.”_

_Confusion swarmed Sihtric’s mind, leaving him feeling tense and uncertain on the spot, but enough that he followed his father’s words. “I_ will _have the body of a warrior!”_

_The older Dane smirked and placed a hand on the back of the child’s shoulder, using it to sharply nudge him forward so he could get a full examination of him. “You’ll never fill out to be what_ that _sword requires. You’ll gain height, but don’t chase illusions, boy. You are no Sven.”_

_Kjartan was eternally grateful when the boy looked away to hide how the words upset him, for his own face twisted into a brief pinch of self-betrayal. The boy had misinterpreted him; it was true that he wouldn’t ever reach Sven’s formidable size - especially not on a meager slave diet. But that wasn’t what he meant when he compared his two sons. Sven had the body of a warrior, strong and capable, but his heart brandished cowardice instead of courage. Since his banishment from Eoferwic, Kjartan had doted over his disabled son, trying to compensate for the loss of their friends and community they both grieved for. What he had hoped would simply be the loving adoration of a father had transformed into a sharpened dagger that deflated any hope Sven had of becoming a relentless, honored warrior. He crippled his own son._

_Sven hated sparing. He complained of the dreary weather and poor provisions when raiding. Though no men said it to Kjartan’s face, he knew his warriors loathed his son and heir. Never would he find Sven willingly putting in late hours at training of his own volition._

_His words were true: Sihtric was no Sven._

_“Your strength,” Kjartan began as he flipped the new sword around, offering the pommel to the boy, “will be speed and agility. You will never be powerful and robust, but that doesn’t mean you’re weak, either. Learn your strengths and build on them, boy.”_

_Hesitantly, Sihtric took the blade, frowning at its slightly body. “This will never fight well against one of those swords.” He nodded mournfully at the large blade now resting among its peers. “I wouldn’t stand a chance.”_

_Kjartan reached forward, correcting the boy’s hold on the pommel and roughly readjusted his stance. “A warrior’s true strength is not in the weapon, but in his arms and heart. That’s what truly matters. A warrior - a good warrior - will kill you with his hands, armed or not.”_

_The readjustment felt strange at first; he’d been practicing for so long following his own assumptions of how he should hold a blade strictly from visual observation that to be corrected felt wrong. He held the stance and allowed his body to become friends with it, burning it forever into his memory. Looking up, he fought against his beaming smile when Kjartan nodded stiffly at him in approval._

_And yet, he still felt inadequate._

_“That other sword…” He looked back at the weapon rack to a blade of the same size and shape as the one he currently held. “Can I use two swords at once?”_

_Kjartan arched a brow up and smirked dryly. “And which hand shall you hold your shield in then?”_

_“You said my strength is speed and agility. I will not need a shield.”_

_There was something moving in the way the boy of not even nine summers spoke. The fear that trembled his voice during the daytime, when he was thrust into the banal obligations of a slave, was nowhere to be found. A brief flicker of fear crossed Kjartan’s own face as he studied his child that sounded so ambitious and certain. So confident. So much like the man he once was._

_He looked skeptically at the boy as he approached the weapon’s rack. “You will need to be_ very _fast.”_

_“I can be fast.”_

Sihtric awoke with a violent gasp, his torso nearly leaving the bed with a start. 

As he dropped back down with the help of warm hands, he wondered if consciousness would leave him again. He wasn’t sure how many dreams and faded memories he’d woken from in gasps of pain, his body so weakened and broken that he couldn’t even find the strength to open his eyes. There were always warm hands, though, pushing and guiding him to lay prone on his back and force some kind of bitter liquid down his throat. The pain was cruel and consuming, enough that he likely would’ve thrown up if he had the strength. And as much as he hated it, it served to remind him that he wasn’t dead; he doubted he’d be in so much pain in Valhalla or Heaven, whichever proved to be the true afterlife. 

He waited for the hands to drain acrid drink into his mouth that would return him back to his dreams and memories. It was a cruel cycle they went through, him and these hands he’d grown somewhat fond of. But as he gasped and spasmed in pain, the hands gently squeezed his naked shoulder. 

“I can’t give you anymore Nightshade.” The hands spoke with a sincere apology in their tone. “You’ve already had more than I probably should’ve given you. And _I’ll_ be killed with Nightshade if you die on my watch.” 

Nightshade? That was the plant his mother tried killing his father with. To be given it as a medicine, or in measured doses, was dangerous but an effective sedative. 

Sihtric’s body, perhaps recognizing that wakefulness was a new norm, began to localize the pain. His head felt like there was a steady drum beating in tandem with his heart, loud and agonizing enough to make him flinch. Breathing proved to be difficult and painful; his chest felt incredibly tight and stiff, as if a pair of strong arms were squeezing him unyieldingly. There were minor aches and stings that he could pass off as inconsequential. The next order of business was figuring out where he was, which required him to gather his meager strength and open his eyes. 

His vision was cloudy and dark as he stared up into the dizzying criss-cross of a roof’s beams. At first, he worried that his vision was forever compromised but he slowly realized that it wasn’t his vision that was jeopardized; it just _was_ cloudy and dark wherever he was. 

A dizzy spell collapsed on him, making him close his eyes with a whimpering groan and place a shaky hand on his head. He felt several layers of unbelievably smooth blankets waterfall at his chest from the movement, their comfort making him take a pause. Where was he? He last remembered fighting the Dane and falling and then nothing. Finan and Uhtred must've saved him and taken him to Ráth Celtchair for healing. That would explain the heavenly bed he was laying in, its mass so plushy that the feather stuffing embraced him happily, and the silk blankets that felt like smooth water. Silk was an extraordinary commodity even found rarely among the trading Danes. It came from the far east and typically had to pass through several trading circles and hands to get this west. 

It made sense that the royalty in Ireland would have it. But what didn’t make sense was the Danish language spoken to him by the man at his side. 

His eyes snapped open. 

The smoke was intense around him, scented with a harsh mixture of herbs that he couldn’t pinpoint. Some were familiar - meadowsweet and sage - but others had a strange aroma so strong he could taste it through the air. Ignoring the furious pounding of his head, he craned his neck to look around himself and felt his heart sink low to his stomach, where it got lost in a clenching abyss. 

He was in a longhouse, elevated in a loft by the looks of how close he was to the roof’s rafters criss-crossed in a surprisingly similar pattern to Uhtred’s. The smoke suddenly made sense now, for while longhouses had a small gap in the roof for a fire’s smoke, it wasn’t enough to suck it all out. The loft around him was strikingly gilted in lavish decorations: an ornate rug of rich reds and purples like he’d never seen before, golden chalices and urns, hanging tapestries of similar glittering threading in complex Arabic patterns. And the bed… Struggling to push himself up to his elbows, Sihtric looked down at the feather mattress covered in floods of silk blankets and heavy furs, everything immaculately groomed and cleaned. 

If he was in a longhouse, being spoken to in Danish, then that meant… 

Breathing heavily in panic, Sihtric frantically looked down at his body to take inventory of his injuries, prepared to have to fight if needed. His entire torso was wrapped heavily in strips of cloth sodden with some kind of sticky honyed salve and dried herbs, gripping him so tight it was difficult to breathe. A tightness in the back of his head made him prod his fingers near the nap of his skull, where he felt several threaded stitches on a pronounced knot. 

“Ah, don’t touch that!”

Sihtric tensed and nearly jumped back as he suddenly remembered the hands and the voice. He wasn’t alone. He blinked up at the Dane who sat at his bedside, eyeing him like a cornered animal sizing up its predator to determine the likely outcome of a quarrel. The Dane was young, not much older than him, and had a mess of tight blonde curls that hung to shoulder length. His leather vest cut down into a dramatic V-collar on his chest, showing off a springing field of emerging chest hair. His face, though, was bright and earnest, his radiant green eyes filled with nervous mirth instead of fight and danger. 

His hands. Those hands that were always on Sihtric when he woke from feverish dreams now hovered in the air near him. They were uncalloused and clean. Not warrior hands. 

“I’m Aki,” he introduced with a jittery smile that showed off two dimples in the middle of his cheeks. “I’m a healer. I’ve been taking care of you since you got here. Ah… don’t touch your chest or your head. I just refreshed the yarrow ointment on your ribs and don’t really want to mix another batch yet.” 

Sihtric blinked rapidly and looked down at his naked body under the blankets. All of his possessions were missing; his clothes, necklaces, bracers, boots. Even his hair had been unbraided, washed, and let down. 

At his patient’s continued silence, Aki’s smile fell to a frown. “You-You understand Danish, right? I mean, you _are_ a Dane but you’re from Saxonlands so I’m actually not sure.” 

Sihtric shot a look up at the other boy. “Yes, I understand you,” he replied in Danish, flinching at his voice’s scratchiness. “Where-where am I?” 

“Ardsthorp. Oleif’s settlement across from Baile Loch Cuan. Here, drink this.” The healer spoke in light tones, almost convincing Sihtric that he wasn’t in a precarious situation. He ended up in the enemy camp. 

He skeptically eyed the cup of dark amber liquid with pieces of herbs floating in it. “What is it?” 

Aki shrugged as he reached down to a bag resting beside him, where more vials, dressings, and herbs remained. “Leeks, garlic, honey, and vervain. It’ll fight your fever and help you heal.” He smiled proudly. “The vervain is my own addition to take some edge off the pain. My mentor wouldn’t… necessarily allow that but how can a man rest if he’s in pain?” 

The amount of herbs used on him gave Sihtric a mental pause as he slowly sipped the revolting liquid. It was bitter and difficult to swallow but had an immediate numbing effect on him. The wealth and success of their trades were absolute and undeniable; the silks and herbs alone were worth as much as Coccham’s entire landmass. 

“You better not make him intoxicated,” a new voice snapped from the corner of the loft, where the ladder shook from recent use. “Oleif wants him lucid when they talk.” 

Another young Dane, curiously around the same age as Aki and Sihtric, sauntered from the smoky shadows to stand beside the healer. He was blonde as well with his curly hair pulled back into a thick ponytail. Unlike the healer, his boxy build was as wide as his stance, muscles corded with frequent use and covered in intricate battle runes. And unlike the healer, he had a full beard that looked out of place on his young features. But the more Sihtric looked at it, the more he was convinced that it was sheared sheep’s fur poorly attached to the skin. 

He flashed a wide, dazzling smile at Sihtric. “I am Aki’s twin brother, Ari. The man who saved you from the river. You are indebted to me.” 

Sihtric blinked. 

“Well, he may have saved you from the river but I saved your life with my mastery of the healing and spiritual arts,” Aki quickly corrected, his own eager smile finding its way across his face. 

They stared at him expectantly. And Sihtric suddenly felt more nervous than he did when he went into battle. Was he supposed to do something? What did they expect him - a prisoner in _their_ camp - to do with this information. “Thank… you?” 

Ari cleared his throat and looked down. “We’ll work on that,” he mumbled mostly to himself. “For starters, when you speak with your uncle, do not forget to bring up the great service we have done for you.” 

His uncle. The man fighting him must’ve recognized his name when he gave it.

Aki smiled wider. “Yes! The great service. Well, _my_ great service. Anyone could’ve pulled you from the river.” 

“Yes, but they didn’t,” the warrior snapped back to the healer. “I remember _you_ cowering in the back near the trees, brother.” When he looked back at Sihtric, his eagerness returned in full force. “I saved you.” 

They wanted his approval. Him. A slave. A prisoner. He had nothing to offer them. “I… I have no payment…” 

Something he said set off an alarm in both of them, for Aki was on his feet in an instant and Ari shook his head frantically. “No, no! We need no payment! We are happy to have offered our service to you, nephew of Oleif.” 

Aki nodded quickly in agreement of his brother’s words. “Yes! No reimbursement needed! Only remember our good service when you speak with your uncle. We are _very_ capable at our trade. Clearly. I mean, look at you. You’re alive!” 

“Thanks to us.” 

“Yes, because of us.” 

The herbs at least took the furious pounding headache away, but Sihtric wasn’t sure the herbs were strong enough to fight off the headache that’d come from the twins. And yet, as confusing and odd as they were, there was something charming about the healer and warrior that made him relax considerably. He expected to wake up in bindings, thrown in the stables or a dark cell to waste away. Instead he was treated as if he were someone of importance. 

“It seems you already know who I am but you can call me Sihtric.” 

Ari clapped his hands together. “Sihtric it is then!” 

Aki nodded. “A great name.” 

“I love that name!” 

As dour and damper as the situation was, Sihtric found himself chuckling lightly at the ridiculousness of the two. But ever a warrior, as his mind began to regain control of itself, clear of the pain that once distracted him, he began to see the value the twins could have. If they were so eager to gain his approval, they might prove to be invaluable resources for him. And if he was under intense guard and lock and key, they might even be able to be swayed in arranging his escape. 

“Aki, Ari…” He looked between the two keen faces. “Where is my uncle now?” 

Both of them humorously opened their mouths to reply, but neither was the one that spoke. A new voice coming up the ladder, strong and loud, answered him: “He’s only just arrived.” 

The clanking and jostling of the ladder was the preamble to the arrival of a large, familiar Dane with a complex web of braids in his hair and Thor’s hammer embellished on the front of his tunic. The creasing of his almond-shaped eyes collapsed into wrinkles as he fondly grinned down at Sihtric from the side of his bed. “That was a good spar we had. Of course, excluding the ending when you tumbled into the river like a rock.” 

It was the same Dane from earlier; the one he chased after and fought near the ravine’s precarious edge. 

“Lord.” Both twins said in unison as they dipped their heads down respectfully. 

But for Sihtric, he offered no such gesture of esteem. His mind awhirl and swarming with a violent clash of emotions, he tried to make sense of them to no avail. This man smiling down at him, without any contempt and malice… “ _You’re_ Jarl Oleif Hrutsson? Brother of Kjartan Hrutsson of Dunholm?” 

Oleif’s smile exploded wider. And much to Aki’s groaned protests to ruin his handiwork, the Earl swooped in and clasped his arms roughly around Sihtric’s battered body. He ignored the grunts of pain from the teen and squeezed just a little tighter. “It is good to have my kin back with me, nephew.” He drew away slightly, finding the boy staring at him in a shocked stupor. “You have your grandfather’s and father’s jaw - I recognized it right when I saw you. A proud jaw for proud men.” 

Maybe the cell would’ve been less luxurious but arguably less confusing for him. At least then he’d know of his place and expectations. Now he felt robbed of logic and speech. 

His uncle seemed to register as much, for he turned to the twins and dismissed them with a nod and words of gratitude for their assistance. They both beamed eagerly, with Aki promising to return to tend to Sihtric’s wounds and Ari quickly adding that he’d bring some kind of board game to keep him company. 

Once they were alone, Oleif sat on Aki’s stool at the bedside. “They mean well,” he explained. “They are trying to make up for a mistake they made during a trade in Francia last year. I still don’t know the full story but I ended up with twelve crates of a very thick cherry alcohol that is like burnt wine. We call it brændevin. It’s good but I would’ve rather had the timber from their forests we were promised instead.” 

For years Sihtric prided himself in the power of silence and knowing how to read people. But now he felt utterly lost. “You’re very good at trading it seems,” he mumbled lamely and looked pointedly at the silks and luxuries around him. 

Oleif shrugged. “It’s our preferred livelihood. Your father tasted battle and became drunk on it, as most Danes do. Don’t get me wrong, fighting is needed, even in trade. But it was never the kernel of my eye.” He smiled as he fingered the fine gold and indigo designs, stylized in Arabian fashion, on the silk blanket covering Sihtric. “All the way from Grikkland. I traded ivory for spools upon spools of it. That was a long trip that I actually would not mind making again. Pleasant in the springtime but too hot in summer.” 

The casualness of his words made Sihtric blink rapidly. So much was wrong and didn’t make sense. “Where are my things?” 

“Your clothes were torn and will need to get mended. I’ll have other clothes brought to you in the meantime.” The older Dane reached over to a small side table, the Carob wood’s dramatic colored knots unlike anything he’d seen before, and pulled out a collection of necklaces. His necklaces. Thor’s Hammer was the first offered back to him, as any good Dane would see fit to do. “I’m curious, though, are you a pagan or a Christian?” The next necklace offered was his mother’s cross. 

Slipping them back over his head, feeling the weight of both faiths with him, Sihtric breathed easier. “Most days I’m pagan but sometimes my questions are stronger than my faith, like all men.” 

“And what of this?” The loose iron choker dangled from Oleif’s palm. The subtle nod to his stature as a slave. “You are _træl_?” 

The teen grabbed for it and hurriedly worked the narrow leather that bounded the sides together around his neck. If he’d claimed to be Christian, and took Finan’s advice to walk a Christian path, he could’ve lied then and there and denied his rank. He could’ve made the false claim of being freeborn. But it would be an affront to his Gods if he did, and he wouldn’t dare tempt their wrath by denying his place in their divinely architectured social structure. 

“ _Fostre_ ,” Sihtric corrected in a small voice. It was a correction that specified his slavery as hereditary; he was the lowest of the slaves, never having breathed as a freeman. Nor would he ever in the future. “My mother was a Saxon slave.” 

Oleif nodded slowly. “I see. I was curious on why I did not get a wedding invitation to my own brother’s second marriage. Maybe even more curious that he took another wife after never truly mourning his first wife’s passing.” 

Honor bound Sihtric to be honest, and something compelled him to want to be honest to this man who embraced him as a kin. “You should know, then, that he refused me.” The memories that came to him in the dream returned; it was the only time his father ever showed him kindness, the following day having arranged his training under Tekil. “The most recognition he gave me was to call me his bastard offspring.” 

“You’re his bastard son and Kjartan was known for being a bastard.” The Earl shrugged indifferently. “I see the two striking each other out. And so you are his son. But most importantly, you are my nephew, and that is all that matters in this moment.” There were sad and desperate undertones in his words, the type that shadowed someone in grieving. And maybe Oleif heard them too, for he continued. “My only son, your cousin, was killed several years ago by the Dál Fiatach. I am… I am still trying to avenge his death. It is the only thing that has kept us here.” 

There was a lot said, and Sihtric had to slowly tread back and forth over his uncle’s words to fully understand them. “I am sorry for your loss,” he mumbled sincerely before woodening his voice. “What do you mean it is the only thing keeping you here? I know of the attacks you have done to the monasteries and Dál Fiatach’s lands. And if you’re half the decorated trader that you claim and appear to be, I don’t know why you are destroying their place of worship and clearly starving the Irish people. You don’t need their silver and goods. Look around us!” 

Oleif stilled, perhaps even stopping his breathing for a few seconds as he looked at Sihtric intently. “Attacking their lands? What are you talking about?” 

“I’ve seen it! The town where I found you - there was a man there who even said…” 

_“Na Dúghaill_ _?” Finan asked in a pressing, urgent voice. Danes._

_The man frenziedly shook his head._ _“Ní, na Dúghaill…. Ní, na Dúghaill.”_

_Ní, na Dúghaill._ No Danes. 

Sihtric froze. 

“And he said what?” Oleif laughed dryly, suddenly seeming tired and old. “We were delivering stores from the Fianna to them. To help them fight off hunger and disease. Imagine that - they aren’t even our people and we extend our hand in aid. And all for what? To be blamed for their failed king-to-be.” 

No. It wasn’t possible. Sihtric couldn’t read but he knew Father Beocca had a letter from the exact monastery, identifying Oleif Hrutsson as their antagonist. He’d seen the starving people in the dockside village, so fearful for their lives and claiming to have nothing to offer them. He was afraid of them because they were Danes and thought they were coming for their limited supplies. 

But the Danes never spoke to him. He spoke with Finan. And he was afraid of Finan. 

Sihtric’s heart hammered against his chest. “Who is the Fianna?” He demanded. 

His uncle tilted his head to the side, eyeing the teen curiously. “They're landless warriors that pledge their fealty to the strongest and proudest in the land. Irish natives. I guess most of the time, intention or not, that has always been the Irish crown. But the Fianna stopped supporting Dál Fiatach’s leaders when their king took ill and passed power to his manchild son while he recovers.” He shook his head darkly. “That _boy_ double crossed us. _He_ is the reason my son no longer breaths. And he is the only reason we remain here and have not returned to Denmark. I will avenge my son and kill Conall mac Áedo. And as my nephew, I want you at my side to aid me.” 

Conall mac Áedo was Finan’s brother. The very same that orchestrated his dethronement and banishment. He had assumed some kind of power? “What do you mean he double crossed you? I was told that you showed up on these coasts years ago to raid them and… and was paid off to go somewhere else for a time. It was an arrangement made by Conall mac Áedo.”

He smartly left out that his lover was the prince who urged the king to fight the Danes so many years ago. 

Oleif laughed heartily and clapped his hands together, but there was no mirth in it. “He says that? Conall says that? Oh, that bastard. _Conall_ was the one who sent word to Northumbria, expressing interest in having Danish traders and connections with east merchants on his father’s lands. Your father sent word to me about the opportunity, and Conall promised me a settlement in exchange for peaceful trade.” His lips thinned out into a tight line as he looked away. “We showed up prepared for trade and commerce, not battle. We didn’t stand a chance against him when he met us on the beach, weapons drawn. But we’re Danes and managed to hold our own long enough to retreat to this small slice of Valhalla.” 

The pieces began to fall into place, creating a horrible portrait of the ugly truth. Conall invited the Danes to his father’s lands and kept up a facade of lies, using it to paint Finan a treasonous and ill-suited prince. He used it to banish Finan, placing him next in line for the throne. But there was a large hole in the puzzle still missing the most crucial piece. 

“If what you say is true and you’re not attacking the monastery or the Irish people, who is?”

Oleif blinked at how obvious the answer was. “Conall. From what the Fianna tell us, he is driven to insane limits to deplete his land of resources for his military. Something about a war with the northern kingdom. I do not care. All I care about is killing Conall. And that is where we and the Fianna share similar interests. They have no desire to be part of Conall’s machinations, and if that includes working against him through us, they’re a willing party.” He shrugged. “They also enjoy the opportunity of our trade, so long as we continue to help them every so often.” 

Everything was wrong and backwards. A slow panic took root in Sihtric’s heart, squeezing and clenching it ruthlessly. He thought he was the one who ended up in the enemy camp, in need of rescuing or likely to face an untimely death. How wrong he was. Finan and Uhtred were marching right into the serpent’s nest, directly to Ráth Celtchair and Conall’s deceptive influence. 

“I need to go! I need to get to my-” 

A strong hand immediately planted itself on his shoulder, pushing him back to the bed with hardly any force at all. It only reaffirmed how weak the teen was. “You’re going nowhere,” Oleif gruffly said. “You shattered nearly all of your ribs, cracked your head on a rock, and have been feverish since we got you. And… and I’m giving myself until the next moon to end Conall. After the next moon, I’m moving the settlement back to Denmark. There’s a new parliament and king, and my trading successes have earned me a spot among his assembly. I’ll return to avenge my son later, when I have more forces, if I don’t succeed by the next moon. But when I return to Denmark, you’ll be coming with me.” 

Sihtric felt his heart stop at the resoluteness in the jarl’s words. No, he had to get to Finan. He had to tell him everything as soon as possible. “Denmark… I can’t go-” 

“Lord. The Fianna are here to see you, lord.” 

The interruption at least came at a decent time to stop the flow of anger that looked about ready to be unleashed from the teen. Oleif nodded stiffly at the Dane standing at the top of the ladder, head poke over the lip of the loft. “Is Eochocán or Airem here?”

The warrior wet his lips nervously. “Both, lord. They say it is urgent and has to do with Conall.” 

“See them in. I will meet with them soon.” Once the messenger returned back to the lower levels of the longhouse, the entire layout still mysterious and unknown to Sihtric, Oleif turned back to the brooding teen. “You arrived with people, I assume one of them to be your master. Their reactions after you fell in the ravine seemed… much closer than just a master worrying about the integrity of his best draft horse.” 

Sihtric silently nodded. 

Oleif considered this. “I will help you and them until we leave for Denmark. That is the best that I can do. If the Gods favor us, we will see your friends alive and well, and my son will be avenged with Conall’s death. And then we will sail for Denmark. You included.” He reached forward, gentle yet strong hands grabbing at his biceps tenderly. “You are my nephew. My kin. My _only_ living kin left. And I yours. The Gods did not arrange for us to meet and disappear from each other’s lives so quickly, Sihtric. Do you accept my proposal?” 

What options did Sihtric have? If he said no, his uncle would rescind all offers to help him. And in his frail state, not knowing the land and unable to speak the language, he had no chance of tracking down Finan and Uhtred on his own. He needed as many allies as he could get for Finan’s sake. And while his heart shattered at the thought of being forced to sail an entire sea away from the man he was practically engaged to, it was a bittersweet decision he had to make to keep Finan alive. 

“I accept.” 


	8. Chapter 8

They’d been waiting in the chapel for over two hours. Though it was dark and nearly windowless - the narrow slits against the eastern wall that welcomed fractured sunlight was hardly a window - the candles scattered around the chamber let them keep time. Finan watched the flame consume the wicks, making hot wax spill over the edges of the candelabras to create beautiful formations. The young acolytes, not quite graduated to the rank of deacons, would chisel away at the wax to return the candelabra to its rightful glory. 

They had ridden directly north from Ráth Celtchair, following the narrow road that took them through shoddy villages on the way to the monastery. Uhtred recognized the threat that bit at their heels; they were given a day to leave Ireland, a day of mercy. And yet they rode in the opposite direction from the coast and their longship, willingly sacrificing their freedom and merciful day. In one more day's time, they would all be deemed outlaws, with Finan’s death promised upon arrest. 

And yet, they rode on, spurred by confusion, determination, and a shared stubbornness. Maybe that’s why Uhtred and Finan got on so well. They both had the stubbornness of mules, seeing challenges as feats to overcome rather than roadblocks in their paths. 

They were smart about it, and recognized the dangers. Conall’s influence was apparent the further they rode into Ireland’s countryside; patrolling soldiers were thick, well fed, and armored in incredible finery while the villages and citizens stumbled around as starving skeletons wearing rags and little more. If there was a brewing battle, Finan couldn’t imagine his brother was able to enlist any of their farmers or freemen to fight on his behalf. But the more he looked around the villages, the more he noticed a distinct lack of young men. There were none. He’d likely already forced them into his military ranks. 

And between the Danes and this military Conall had, Finan’s hope for getting Sihtric back suffered. They needed help if they wanted to infiltrate the Danish settlement, and his brother had sharply turned them away. Traveling to the monastery and the monk that had originally pleaded for King Alfred’s help against Oleif was their last lifeline for more insight to the befuddled affairs. It made no sense that a monk in a rich monastery, per Conall’s account, would go through the expensive trouble of writing and sending correspondence across the sea for Danes that weren’t proving a threat at all. At first, Finan and Uhtred thought Conall’s denial of the Danes terrorizing them to be an act of pride. But the more they traveled across Dál Fiatach’s countryside, the more they witnessed the atrocities at the hands of the Irish soldiers. 

There were no Danes. Not one. 

On the way to the monastery, they had exchanged Alfred’s silver for four horses, a rickety wagon with a questionable axel, and some peasant attire. Conall had seen them all, and a traveling party with two very distinct Danes would make them too recognizable. 

Leaning against a statue of Saint Patrick, their patron, Finan idly watched Clapa finger the jagged hem of his very basic linen shirt, threadbare and ratty. It was the attire of a farmer, the persona they forced the Dane to adopt if they were questioned or approached by any. Even Uhtred had stuffed his leather vest and Danish clothing into the wagon and grudgingly put on the dusty breeches and long-sleeved jerkin, looking disgusted for a moment before he remembered it was needed. 

The monastery had welcomed them in, for why wouldn’t they? Three farmers, a nun, and a priest looked to be devout parishioners in need of divine attention and guidance. But when they were brought to the chapel for silent worship, Beocca procured the letter from the monk and showed it to the young doorkeeper, a boy of barely ten. He could read, as all boys at the monastery could, and had widened his eyes when he skimmed the words. It’d been hours since the lad rushed off in a hurry. Hours since they were told by another monk to wait. 

Finally, their waiting came to an end when a young monk with short blondish red hair stepped through a small door leading to an antechamber, a tight grin on his face. “Father Beocca!” His grin evolved to a large, cheeky smile. “It is so very good to see ya! Ah, I would apologize for the wait, but alas, patience is a Godly virtue, is it not?” 

Beocca’s face lit up in pleasant familiarity as he rose from the pew. “Brother Líadan!” 

The warmth of two friends reuniting wasn’t shared by Uhtred, who grumbled as he pushed himself off from a dusty column he leaned against. “I am a pagan and so your _virtues_ are lost on me. I shall take that apology, monk.” 

Líadan blinked at Uhtred, his smile slipping some, and looked alarmingly at Beocca. “A pagan?” 

“He’s been baptised,” Beocca quickly reaffirmed in a helpful voice, sensing the unease. 

Uhtred smiled dryly. “Twice.” 

Convinced that their place of God was not threatened, Líadan nodded stiffly, his warmness returning gradually. He looked across all of them, eyes lingering over Clapa’s enormous size that gave away he was certainly _not_ a farmer, Hild’s wooden cross, and, finally, Finan’s recognizable features. He stilled on the latter, uncertainty flickering over him before sharply lowering his head respectful. “ _An Prionsa Finan mac Áedo_.” 

Finan seethed and looked away. “Do not call me that,” he replied in tense English. “That title was left behind when I was dragged off in chains.” 

The monk stared at him for a few seconds. “To the ways of men, perhaps, but in the eyes of our Lord, it has always been waiting for ya here. And never before a time was it so needed. Come. Ya have questions.” 

He abruptly turned and disappeared into the darkness behind him, wordlessly urging the group to follow him. The corridor was profoundly narrow with a low-ceiling that even made Finan duck his head; Clapa laughed in amusement as he was forced to bend at the knees to make it through. The sinewy Dane had the refreshful knack of finding entertainment in the more perilous of situations, somehow distilling nightmares into joy. It was a talent that grated against the nerves of many, for many had forgotten the talent of finding life’s joys in simple things when they abandoned childhood. Clapa hadn’t. 

“You sent this letter,” Beocca began as he focused on Líadan directly in front of them. The corridor was almost pitch black, without windows, and no sconces on the walls. It was not a corridor that was meant to be used often, or perhaps at all. “I assume you have the answers to our questions.” 

“No, I don’t. But I have in good authority the person who does.” 

The monk stopped so suddenly their single line almost collided into one another. The jingle of keys and the sound of an iron lock shifting from its place was the prelude to a small door creaking open, flooding them with dull light. And eventually their procession continued, granted a much deserved retreat from the dark passage. 

The chamber that met them was decently sized with a lone window tucked into the far back corner, added as an afterthought. It did little to offer illumination, just enough to let Finan take in his surroundings. A narrow bed hugged one wall while the other had a desk littered in papers and books, its pushed in chair unoccupied. Perhaps the most surprising was the incredible wall to wall bookshelving crammed with dusty tomes, scrolls, and ageless texts. It was first determined to be a library, and repurposed into a bedchamber by the paltry addition of a bed. 

Finan almost missed him in his cursory glance around. Lacking the proud armor and polished jewelry he had grown up seeing him in, standing eye level with him beside a bookshelf instead of seated on his throne, surrounded by a humble duo of priests rather than his honored guards… Finan almost didn’t recognize his father. 

Líadan cleared his throat and dropped his chin to his chest respectfully. “King Ainbíth mac Áedo, the _true_ ruler of Ulaid and Dál Fiatach.” 

The world dissolved around Finan; he distantly heard Uhtred’s baritone voice introduce each of them but that soon became as muted as the crackling embers in the hearth near the bed. Nothing around him existed anymore as he stared at the man he once idolized, finding his own strength in the king’s honor. Once upon a time he had strived to become half the man the king was, to continue to honor his legendary name and accomplishments with feats of his own, to extend their borders and bring harmony to Ulaid’s rivaling lands between north and south. He once dreamed of meeting his father’s expectations and being the Son of Ireland she deserved. And for years, for almost his entire life, he was exactly that. 

Finan had risen through the ranks as a fearless warrior, had earned the love and loyalty of the northern troops he commanded, and continued his prowess in the political circles he frequented. Even as a prince, his reputation began to gain traction and grip the hearts of their rivals. And so focused on his people, on bettering them and bringing them victory, that he’d stupidly never stopped to question just who those rivals were. Never did he think that jealousy and lust for power would sicken his own brother. 

And as he stared at his father and his father stared back at him, he was brought back to that horrible day Conall managed to convince his father of his treason. The love and loyalty his troops had for him had been his undoing; Conall convinced his father that so long as Finan remained on their lands, the northern troops would not listen to anyone but Finan. They would march against the Danes, as Finan desired, and not back down as his brother and father wanted. Finan was too much of a threat, Conall managed to poison the concept to his father, and his father listened. 

And for years when he rowed, Finan imagined all of the wonderful ways he’d kill his father and brother. It was in those fantasies that he convinced himself that he hated Ireland and everything it stood for. It was nothing more than a graveyard for him filled with ghosted people and murdered dreams. But those lies were only strengthened through his torment and pain. And without it, they were hollow and weak. 

The pain was there but it wasn’t physical. It was betrayal. Not the betrayal of a father to his son, but a king to his prince. He loved Ireland and had never, not even when he was at the oars, stopped loving her. 

“ _Mo mac,_ ” the king’s words were in a silent voice, but they were strong. They always were. “ _Tá an-bhrón orm_.” 

The Gaelic apology stirred something in Finan. He’d imagined hearing it for years when he’d return to Ireland to take revenge. In those imaginary trips, he conjured all of the delicious ways he’d dish back the pain and suffering he had to endure back on his father and brother. The cruel twist of a blade felt too generous; he wanted them to suffer as he did, to be reduced to nothing and treated worse than a dog. He wanted them to hurt as bad as he hurt. 

Everyone in the room tensed when Finan silently crossed the chasm between him and the king. But no one held him back, even as his arms rose and the king tilted his head up to accept what was coming. His father was proud, he always was, and even in the face of the son he damned to a hellish life, he admitted his wrongdoings and was accepting of the result. 

But his weapon remained untouched at Finan’s side, cold and lifeless, as he threw his arms around his father in a deep hug. It took only a second for the king to register that he wasn’t being choked or stabbed, that his child had returned to his rightful place at his side when his kingdom needed him the most. 

And as Finan embraced his father, he embraced Ireland again. 

“We have much to discuss,” Líadan’s uncertain voice broke the fragile reunion between the king and prince, who quickly broke their embrace and lingered a strong, understanding gaze between the two of them. The past was just that; the past. And neither had an interest in revisiting it. Amends were made in seconds, kindled by the burning brush of their beloved kingdom. Through their shared pain, they found an accord and forgiveness. 

“Yes, like why you sent us a letter begging for help against nonexistent Danes for your clearly healthy monastery,” Uhtred was never one to hide his annoyance, and he certainly didn’t start then. “We were sent from King Alfred, crossed your sea, and one of my best men has been captured by the Danes. Why are we here?!” 

Líadan flinched under the brutal tone. “I beg ya the Lord’s forgiveness, but we had no choice. I… I needed ya to come to this monastery. It’s where the King has been in hiding.” 

Nodding slowly, Ainbíth, the king, looked patiently between them all, though his words seemed directed at Finan. “I’ve been in exile for some time, moving between monasteries to stay alive. It was my decision to ask King Alfred for help. I knew he wouldn’t send anyone if I told ‘em my own son was a tyrant. We deceived ‘em for help. He will have my apology for that.” 

Blinking rapidly, Uhtred’s eyes turned unfocused as his mind connected the dots. “So… you do not have sweating sickness. You are not sick at all. You were overthrown. Why does he not just declare your death then and claim the throne? 

“As long as I’m alive and have some kind of presence, he can’t. I make my presence known just enough to deny ‘em the crown but that doesn’t stop ‘em from having influence in the military and assembly.” 

Finan frowned deeply. “But you’re king.” 

“And you’re our restored crowned prince, as of this moment,” Ainbíth replied with a grim smile. “A title without much power but enough to deny ‘em what he wants, even if I fall.” The smile dissolved to nothing. “There’s much more ya must hear.” 

The hours blended together as they talked, interrupted every so often when the monks brought them wine, dark bread, and fish. The food, though welcomed after so long without a decent meal, was hard to digest with the foul news they were told. Finan was silent as he heard about his brother’s fetid handling of the Danes years ago. His father had been convinced by his brother to pay the Danes, when they first arrived, Danegeld; an attractive amount of silver and goods for them to leave their lands. Conall had been sent to the coast where the Danes were to receive the geld. But, according to Conall’s initial story, his men were attacked by the Danes, though he managed to emerge victorious and force them to retreat to the peninsula. It took years for Ainbíth to finally get the truth. 

The Danes didn’t attack. Conall did. Everything had been a perfectly orchestrated lie, hatched and unfolded to usher Conall into his father’s righthand side and painted him the battle-seasoned prince. But his reputation was manifested through half-truths, and that kind of flimsy foundation cannot hope to stand on its own. 

“Why did the Danes never leave?” Uhtred asked, brows creased in confusion. “Or try to attack?” 

His father shrugged. “At first, they did try. But they are merchants and didn’t seem interested in conquering. They came for a trade network. In south Ireland, the kingdoms have mostly peaceful trades with the Danes. I suppose they wanted something like that.” He paused a moment. “The settlement of theirs on the peninsula, it’s fortified. Strong. They keep mostly to themselves, though word is they’ve been helping the Fianna.” 

Finan took a deep gulp of the wine. It was bitter and dry, just as he remembered it. “Aye, the Fianna…” He quickly explained to the Saxons about the landless warriors before turning to his father. “Does Conall have their loyalty?” 

“Far from,” the king replied. “When I went into hiding, they stopped supporting the throne. They’re led by your uncles, Eochocán and Airemón, and they keep a smart distance from Ráth Celtchair or anywhere your brother’s influence reaches.” He shook his head. “I lost track of ‘em but last I heard, they’ve been staying on the peninsula near the Danes.” 

Leaning back on the stool - the sole chair in the room occupied by the highest rank - Uhtred sighed in thought. It was a domestic affair, a revolution that fractured their kingdom. And while it took some time for the truth to finally emerge, one glaring observation couldn’t be ignored; the Danes weren’t the ones terrorizing the monasteries. Alfred dispatched his men and Uhtred under the assumption, as a God-following Christian, to save fellow Christians against the cruelty of pagans. 

But the pagans were just as victimized. Would Alfred care if Uhtred continued to act in his absence, to assist in bringing stability to Ulaid’s battered lands, even if it wasn’t against pagans? 

Turning to Beocca, he groaned at the question he was compelled to ask: “What would Alfred say of this?” 

The priest blinked in surprise at the question. “He… would say that we’re guided by God and it is his word that we must listen to.” 

Naturally. Uhtred rolled his eyes. “And what does your god say? We are in a monastery. His voice should be very clear.”

A smile crinkled the edges of Beocca’s eyes. “God would see his children delivered from torment and suffering.” 

That was all he needed to hear, even if it was influenced by Beocca’s own desire to liberate an oppressed people. Nodding stiffly, Uhtred pushed himself to stand. “Can you get this Fianna to side with our forces? I have a company of Saxon soldiers in Mercia waiting to sail at my word. If we make the trip back to the coast tonight, I can send it in the morning. They can likely make the crossing by early next month. Between Alfred’s men and the Fianna, we would have the power to overthrow Conall’s forces.” 

The king, suddenly looking old and frail to Finan, pushed himself to stand with Uhtred and sadly shook his head. “I cannot get into contact with my brothers to question their loyalty but so long as their interests are against Conall, I don’t think they’d be against giving their swords. But there is not enough time. Dál Fiatach and Dál nAraidi will be in battle before the new moon. A battle that Conall will win. And when he does, he’ll take their lands and their army, enslave the Danes and steal their resources, and we’ll need all of Wessex to fight against ‘em.” 

Finan let out a curse. “We need to fight ‘em before the new moon then. Before that battle. Do ya know where the battle is supposed to be?” 

His father nodded. “North of here. Near the border. The armies will be assembling on each side. We’ll know where Conall’s forces are and can stage a flanking surprise assault.” 

Time was just one of the many hurdles they had to leap over. The second was the Fianna. Uhtred glanced briefly between Finan and Ainbíth, wanting to give them the time they deserved to mend their crippled relationship, but knew that he couldn’t. The clock was just as villainous as Conall was. “I need to get back to the coast to send word to gather Alfred’s company. It will take time for that many men to make the crossing. The Dane settlement...” Uhtred paused, looking pained at the memory. “A friend of ours, a Dane, was captured by them. What can you tell me of Oleif Hrutsson?” 

The king gestured at Líadan to answer, the monk sharply nodding at the silent order. “A man of honor and family, lord. I’ve met ‘em once when he brought aid to a small convent east of here. If ya seek audience with ‘em, ya should get it. But he…” He looked hesitantly at Finan. “He has a blood oath to avenge his son, killed by Conall. He may not welcome his kin.” 

“That’s an oath I’ll happily help with,” Finan grumbled. 

“We need to go,” Hild gently interrupted, looking pointedly at the orange and red lights flooding in through the window from the setting sun. It was true, they had a long journey and many more obstacles ahead of them, and they’d lingered longer than they should’ve. 

“After we hail the company in Mercia, we’ll talk to this Fianna of yours,” Uhtred explained as he urged his men - and Hild - back to the tiny, dark corridor. It made sense now that it was so hidden, Ulaid’s king concealed on the other side of it. 

After Uhtred and the others disappeared into the passage’s collapsing darkness, Finan lingered but for a moment, him and his father simply looking at one another as if waiting for the other to speak. But where to start? Do they speak as if the years of treachery did not exist? 

“You will make a fine king, Finan. A _true_ king.” 

Years ago, those words would’ve excited some part of Finan. Now they only filled him with apprehension and nerves. That lifetime had been put to bed, and he’d long ago accepted that he’d never see the throne. For a while, he grieved what he lost, mourned his loss of Ireland and everything he gave her. That hole in his heart had been filled, though, by the love of another. Sihtric. He’d built a new life in Coccham with a man he was happy to spend the rest of his days with. The teen’s whimsical chuckles and mirthful banter still filled his heart and ears, and it was the new fuel he needed to keep him fighting. At least now, he knew that Sihtric was in good hands with the Danes and his uncle. 

And for some reason, he worried over what Sihtric would think of his restored title. Would it bother him to the point of making him leave? 

In the end, Finan merely embraced his father again tightly before turning to follow after Uhtred. In the moment, his mind was blank, and he didn’t know what to say. But later, much later, he’d come to regret that silence. All of his questions and words he wanted to say to his father should’ve found their voice then, for never again would there be another time.


	9. Chapter 9

Taking his spot beside his uncle at the great table reminded Sihtric of Dunholm. In those days, he would linger in the shadows, either beside Tekil’s warriors or near the other slaves, and watch Kjartan hold assemblies and meetings. Naturally, Sven was always at his father’s righthand side, and Sihtric had wondered if, in another life, he would’ve been seated at his father’s left. How different his life would’ve been. 

The days at Ardsthorp had passed by slowly for Sihtric. His pain was combated with Aki’s concoctions fed him periodically throughout the day. It seemed the teen had regained his strength by the hour, much to Oleif’s satisfaction. The yarrow and honey ointment continued to be slathered over his healing ribs that were mending beautifully, and by the end of the week he was finally able to walk around the longhouse. 

He’d always wondered what a miracle was and if he’d ever see one in his lifetime. That, he concluded, was a miracle. 

Ari had stuck true to his word, arriving daily to bring a nice combination of board games and the thick cherry alcohol they apparently had a surplus of. It was delicious, and Sihtric decided that if he managed to weasel his way out of the trip to Denmark, he’d bring a few bottles back to Coccham. Uthred would enjoy it, but Finan would turn his nose up in the way that he did when Sihtric introduced him to the sugared dates they enjoyed at Jol. 

Finan… His heart ached terribly for him. 

The two Fianna leaders, Eochocán and Airemón, now seated across from him and his uncle had striking similarities that reminded him of his Irish lover. The same tenacious eyes and fierce determination, and he would swear they tightened their jaw in the same stubborn manner Finan did when putting his foot down with Uhtred. And it wasn’t until they were halfway through the conversation and they referred to Conall as their ‘moronic nephew’ that more puzzle pieces fell into place. The commanding air of authority that followed the two Irish brothers wasn’t only natural to them, but it was hereditary. They were the sons of kings, and brother to the current Ulaid king. And Finan’s uncles. 

When Sihtric first met them, he liked them immediately. They moved with purpose and spoke in short, clipped sentences devoid of the long stares and lazy tones he came to recognize as favored among politicians, especially Alfred. But a warrior didn’t have the luxury to employ silence and pregnant pauses. Every moment mattered to a warrior. A second wasted was a second that could’ve been used in battle, in fortifying a shieldwall, in scouting the field. But a politician, so far removed from the realities of the world and used to others waiting on them, couldn’t appreciate that. 

Earlier that day, his uncle had interrupted his and Ari’s daily Hnefatafl match, their pieces already scattered across the board and Sihtric likely lining up to lose their first round. He wasn’t the best at strategy, and the drinking game they associated with their matches made losing technically winning. Aki chugged with the loser, regardless of who won. He seemed happy with the arrangement. But their game came to an abrupt end when Oleif tossed Sihtric a tunic made of the finest, smoothest, yet thickest leather he’d ever touched. It felt undeserving in his hands, the tanning so soft yet durable he worried if it was meant for him. It was dark in color, dyed black that matched the charcoal lining his eyes, and he had cast a questioning look at his uncle. 

“It’s from the Carolingian Empire. Italia, specifically. Langbarðaland Minor in the south. The beaches there are warm, but rocky, with turquoise waters so clear you can see the fish and crabs that swim around your feet,” his uncle, he discovered, found great joy in speaking of his travels and trades. And Sihtric, he discovered, found great joy in hearing them. 

But time for stories would have to wait. Sihtric had quickly put the vest on, retwisted his hair into three slender twists down the middle, and smudged the inky coal under his eyes. They had a meeting and his uncle insisted he be present. His hope, his uncle confided in him as they waited in the longhouse for the Fianna leaders, was to enlist the landless warriors to their cause. Through that they would be capable of using their forces to overthrow and kill Conall, and Oleif could finally return to Denmark an avenged father.

The older of the brothers, Eochocán, had a full beard with patches of grey and whites, while his younger brother was only capable of a thin field of facial hair. Maybe it was because of that the Danes tended to defer to Eochocán. “Getting to Conall will be hard,” the older Irishman carped. “And even if we did, Conall may be a right bastard, but he’s the only ruler our lands have at the moment. He doesn’t have an heir. And because our brother has been hidden away with some sickness, there’s been no word on succession. Removing Conall would just disrupt the power balance.” 

“He’s right,” Airemón agreed and took a small sip from his glass. Glass cups. It was the first time Sihtric had seen them. They felt so fragile and breakable that he was hesitant when drinking from it. Glass was supposed to be used for windows, and even that was rare. To drink ale and wine from it made him feel superfluous and royal. “Cutting off the head without knowing where our brother is will just put Dál Fiatach into another clan war. And with the state our people are in, that’s the last thing they need. We’d be too vulnerable to attacks from the Dál nAraidi.” 

Clan wars. The two Irish subkingdoms. It was difficult for Sihtric to follow everything. But one thing did stand out in his mind. “What about Finan?” 

The two leaders stilled and narrowed their eyes dangerously on the teen. “What _about_ Finan indeed,” Eochocán cocked a curious brow. 

“He’s a prince of Ireland,” Sihtric countered, ignoring the looks from his uncle. He was getting ahead of himself, not thinking his words through. “If you kill Conall and can’t find the real king, can’t Finan take the throne?” 

Eochocán stared at the Dane boy down the length of his slender nose, his body tense. “I don’t know how ya know about Finan, but he’s been removed from the line of succession. And his father would need to either restore ‘em, or the assembly would need to agree on ‘em being fit.” 

Not to mention, a small voice inside Sihtric’s head whispered, if Finan did take the throne, it was unlikely their future together would continue. No king would want to share furs with a lowly slave. Not when he had an entire kingdom at his fingertips. He almost felt relief at Eochocán’s words regarding Finan. 

The meeting was concluded without a solution being found, the day inching towards the night and the brothers needing to get back to their men. They’d be back to discuss more details, they assured, before leaving the longhouse and a despairing Sihtric behind. He needed to get to Finan and Uhtred somehow to tell them everything that he’d learned. Was Conall lying to them about the Danes? Would he accept Alfred’s men and turn them on Ardsthorp when the Danes were hardly a threat? Or maybe he simply arrested Finan and Uhtred right when they arrived in the capital. But who sent the letter to Alfred if the Danes weren’t a threat and hadn’t touched their monasteries? 

“You look troubled.” 

Closing his eyes at his uncle’s words, Sihtric propped his shoulder against a wooden beam supporting the longhouse’s loft. “Just tired.” 

“You should lie down,” Oleif carefully stepped aside as women hastily filled into the longhouse to continue finishing the dinner meal. They’d been ushered out for the meeting that interrupted their livelihood. After staying in the longhouse for the past week, Sihtric had come to anticipate their presence. Similar to Dunholm, the meal was a community affair for those who wished to attend. But unlike Dunholm, Sihtric was invited to sit near the head of the table at his uncle’s side. “Or maybe you should walk around.” 

Sihtric opened his eyes at that. “Walk around? Here?” 

His uncle gestured to the still open longhouse doors, where the sunset’s cascading colors created enchanting layers on the horizon, just over the Danish thatched roofs. “Out there. You haven’t seen Ardsthorp. You’ve barely left the bed.” He rumbled a low chuckle. “You are young. I have my mead-hall open. It would do you some good to get to know everyone before...” 

Sihtric blinked. “Before?” 

“Before we sail for Denmark.” He saw the grimace of an argument cloud the boy’s face. “It is a long trip and when we get there-” 

But Sihtric made an audacious move, turning away from the older Dane while he was speaking and beginning his retreat back to the ladder and loft. “I’m going back to bed.” 

“Sihtric!” 

The ladder was within arms reach but the stern voice made him stop. It made everyone in the longhouse pause and toss uneasy glances at Oleif. It was true that Sihtric was beginning to feel caged in and restless in the longhouse, not having a change of scenery. But the purpose of leaving, to mingle with those he’d be forced on a longship with to make a journey he didn’t want to lands he didn’t know. He wanted to go back to Coccham with Finan, back to their small home and laze the day away with their limbs entangled, exchanging bad jokes and riddles. He wanted to swim in the river that nipped at Coccham’s banks, eat Gisela’s cooking again, and make bets on how much Clapa could lift. Denmark had nothing for him; he wasn’t even fully Danish. Finan and his whole life was in Wessex. 

And yet… another voice, quiet and sinister, sneered loudly in his ear. 

Finan was a prince and very possibly on the eve of becoming the next king if Ulaid was in need of a successor. If Conall was forced from the throne, his father remained missing, and Finan played an active role in liberating his people, his pledge to restore his title would likely be met with resounding applause. Why wouldn’t Dál Fiatach usher in the very prince that saved them to assume the crown? He came from the bloodline and had survived several atrocities committed by the tyrant he eventually overthrew, avenging himself and bringing salvation to his subjects. It was the makings of a perfect king. And who was Sihtric to stand in his way and be a distraction? 

Maybe that was where their paths and destinies diverged. Maybe everything they had and everything they wanted was nothing more than a whimsical fantasy; unrealistic and never attainable. Maybe Finan’s place was in Ireland and Sihtric’s was in Denmark. 

“Sihtric… Denmark will be good for you. You’ve spent so long with the Saxons that it’s time that you-” 

“You’re right.” The teen turned from the ladder with a quick nod, avoiding his uncle’s strict stare. “I… I’d like to see this mead-hall. Even if Denmark doesn’t… I still would like to meet people.” He wet his lips, his heart still unable to fully give up hope for his lover, despite that malicious voice in his head. “If that is alright with you, I mean.” 

Oleif straightened up in surprise, his sternness chased off by the boy’s immediate obedience and sudden willingness. “Yes, of course. It’s the hall nearest the water’s edge. Just follow the sound of drunk singing.” 

The teen nodded silently, trying to hide or ignore the crack in his heart. He wasn’t sure which yet. “Thank you. I… I won’t be out long.” That much was truthful. As much as he had a craving for booze, he didn’t desire company, especially the merrymaking of a mead-hall. 

“Take your time. And… enjoy yourself, Sihtric.” 

It was hard to stay angry at his uncle when he only wanted what he felt was best for him. That alone was strange for the teen, who was so accustomed to questioning the intent of others where his wellbeing was a concern, especially among Danes. All of his life he’d been subject to cruelty and misgivings, constantly reminded of his lowly status in life. Slaves served in mead-halls, especially in Dunholm, and rarely was he invited to enjoy a drink when living there. If he was having a drink in the great hall, it was typically with Tekil and his fellow warriors, his presence included as a group assembly and little else. 

“I will try,” he returned to his uncle with a faint smile before slipping into the twilight that had descended on Ardsthorp. 

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting; maybe a village similar to Dunholm with a crowd of rowdy warriors during the day hours that slowly transitioned to an unruly, drunken crowd at night. His exposure to Danes was mostly limited to Dunholm, which turned out to be a rather poor example of a true Danish village. If anything, Ardsthorp more resembled Coccham with its openness and embracing of nature. The turf and thatch roofed houses rested on a forest of timbers and wooden posts; there was no daub and wattle like the Saxons favored, and he had to question how the building style fought off the bitter winds. 

Denmark saw worse winters than England. They must’ve perfected their knowledge in the building arts to make it a less obvious answer. Sophisticated and simple. 

Streets winded between the homesteads, some filled with carts carrying goods and fish and others with fellow Danes casually strolling down them. Though Ardsthorp was a decent size, it was intimate enough that his presence was noted by everyone he passed. Undoubtedly by now - and likely thanks to the Danish twins - many knew of his relationship with Oleif. They nodded in greeting to him, acknowledging him as if he were a freeman and of the same rank. And consumed in the casualness and inclusivity of it, Sihtric forgot his own lowly status and nodded back with a half-smile. 

Ardsthorp balanced itself on the coast, making the air mostly smell of fish and sea salt. Every so often Sihtric would pass a dwelling with a billow of smoke rising from the designated hole in the roof, showering him with smells of exotic herbs and rich meats cooking inside. Herbs that he’d never smelled before. And that exoticism seemed to exist everywhere in Ardsthorp. All of the people he passed were well dressed in fine fabric and garments, their successes in trading clearly shared among their citizenry. Which, he noticed, was an interesting mix of warriors, women, children, tradesmen, farmers, and everything in between. It was a village. Not the fortress that he was imagining. 

As promised, the mead-hall was easy to find. It was a large structure with two doors shoved wide open to welcome the tepid air indoors. Nestled purposefully near the docks packed full with a dizzying amount of longships of all different sizes, the hall was already in full swing and lit with life. There was a drunken brawl being carried out on the hall’s side with a small audience cheering the intoxicated fighters on. Someone must’ve seen to disarming them, for only their poorly aimed fists were their weapons. Several tables and benches were dragged outside and placed on the narrow strip of grass that separated the hall from the beach. But ever drawn to the sea, some of the Danes had migrated down to the sandy shore and lit several small bonfires. 

Glancing inside the hall, Sihtric was surprised that there was barely anyone in it. Most seemed to prefer outdoors. 

“Is that Sihtric? Yes, it is Sihtric. Move over.” 

The familiar voice brought an immediate smile to the teen’s lips, drawing him away from the empty hall to join the dozens of others enjoying drink and company outside. He passed by a trio of men dancing on the long table tops while their captive, laughing audience clapped and cheered them on with songs and makeshift drums. It was loud and the beat was infectiously fun, immediately lifting the dour mood that shadowed him. It was nothing like Dunholm. 

His boots squished through the beach as he approached the familiar brothers sitting cross-legged in front of a small bonfire. “We saved you a spot!” Aki patted the sand beside him. 

Sihtric grinned and looked around himself theatrically. “Saved it from who?” 

The blonde warrior, who this time didn’t have any facial hair glued to his face, offered over his wooden cup to the teen. “You lasted longer than I thought in that longhouse. I would’ve been crawling the walls by the third day.” 

Slowly plopping himself down in the sand, Sihtric nodded in thanks to the cup - happy that it was wood and not the delicate glass - and took a hearty sip. It was an unspoken assumption, per their culture, that he’d get the next round for them. “Today was the first day that I could breathe without coughing up blood or… coughing at all.” He saw the concern on Aki’s face. “But you’ve been a great healer. Probably one of the best. Don’t take insult to that.” 

The young healer eventually shrugged. “Hey, my job is to keep you _alive_. Breathing? That’s required. Coughing up blood and pain? Now that’s optional.”

“Spoken like a true læknir,” Ari bellowed a chuckle, the sound thundering in his bulky chest much like a drum. “Sihtric! I hear you’re to sail with us next month to Denmark. I’ve already reserved a spot for you on our boat. It’s a great, long trip that’ll be rich with stories once we make it home.” 

Sihtric kept his cynicism at an arm’s reach, refusing to allow it to taint his night. “All my stories will consist of vomit and hanging off the side of the ship.” He grinned forlornly at the sea and would swear his stomach churned to mock him. “I make a horrible sailor.” 

“Did I say I saved you a spot? I meant to say that I saved you a spot on the boat _next_ to ours.” 

Sihtric chuckled weakly as he took another sip of the mead. It was sweeter than the tasteless ale he was used to. “Well, take heart then in knowing that I’m not sure I’ll even be going with you. It’s… complicated.” 

He felt their shocked stares on him and looked down at the sand smudged around his boots, strangely unable to meet their gazes. He liked them, even if they were quirky and eccentric, and he’d even risk to say he considered them friends. It was easy to talk with them; Aki’s intelligence lended itself to him being a master of riddles, rivaling Sihtric’s once uncontested title. And Ari was a warrior through and through, had seen his fair share of battles and enjoyed treating Sihtric to saga-worthy stories he embellished with dramatics. 

Maybe in another life he would’ve grown up with them. They were all around the same age, after all. Maybe in that life he would’ve been raised as his father’s legitimate son, recognized and shown that he was worthy of the acknowledgement. For years, like most bastard offspring, he’d filled his mind with warm fantasies and makebelief to fill the void. Most of the time it consisted of being around Dunholm as his father’s son, proving to be strong and better than Sven. In those fantasies, his father took his mother as a wife instead of just his bed slave and, through her infinite grace and serenity, he saw the error of his cruel ways. 

Like most men, he thought that he’d outgrown childish fantasies. But that was a lie men only told themselves to fortify their masculinity. Dreams and fantasies never died down; they just became better with hiding when they happened. 

It was easy to create new fantasies of what could’ve been, especially seeing his uncle, the twins, and the Danish settlement. He imagined what it would’ve been like had his father traveled with Oleif to Ireland instead of merely sending him on his own. In that life, he would’ve brought his favorite slaves with him including his mother, and his mother would’ve brought him, naturally. The distance from Northumbria and Dunholm would prove to be the cure for his father’s cruelty, for he would rebuild a new life on new lands in Ireland with a new wife and new son. And he’d love them both. 

It was a good fantasy, Sihtric determined, but it would only ever exist in his mind. 

“What’s her name?” 

The teasing voice made Sihtric look up at Ari to see him grinning ear to ear like a fool. “What?” 

“Nothing in life is complicated unless there’s a woman involved. So what’s her name?” 

Was he that transparent? But he answered truthfully with a quiet snicker. “ _She_ doesn’t have one.” 

Aki blinked. “A nameless woman? Now that is complicated. But we can fix that, give her a nice strong, Danish name. Then it is not so complicated anymore, yes?” 

His brother glared at him. “I don’t know how someone so intelligent can be so idiotic.” The gravity of the conversation seemed to preclude the healer, his knowledge in the ways of men largely limited to his books and studies. And knowing this, the blonde warrior shoved their two cups into his chest and told him to get them another round. It was technically Sihtric’s responsibility to do it, but Aki didn’t lodge a formidable complaint. And as he walked off towards the mead-hall leaving a trail of grousing in his wake, Ari finally turned to Sihtric with a lowered voice. “What’s _his_ name?” 

Their identities swayed between two teens and that of two warriors. Sihtric wasn’t sure which one they assumed now. Maybe a mix. “Finan,” he mumbled truthfully as he stretched his legs out. It wasn’t against their ways to have male lovers, but no freeman would willingly accept the passive role in the relationship. Sihtric was no freeman. 

“That’s not Danish.” 

“No, it’s not.” 

Warriors had the talent of filling in the unspoken. They could interpret silence, devise what rested in those quiet gaps, and understand the situation. It was a knack that only warriors learned on the battlefield, where spoken language was impossible to achieve. Ari and Sihtric were no different. The squat blonde leaned back on his hands and looked up into the sky, where clouds of pale pinks and orange rescinded like the tide to welcome indigo and purple nightfall. “Have you told your uncle?” 

He shook his head. 

“He would allow you to bring him to Denmark,” Ari helpfully urged. “He just wants _you_ to come with us. So you’ve got a Saxon male lover. We’ve got plenty of warriors who prefer the company of men in their furs.” 

“If only it was that easy…” he wet his lips and looked up towards the mead-hall, wondering where their alcohol was now that he desperately needed it. He found Aki leaning against the side of a table, attempting to woo a young woman who couldn’t even pretend to look interested. “My friends and life are back in Wessex, Ari. I can’t leave that behind. And I’m not… my mother was Saxon.” 

“But your father was a Dane. A damned good one, too.” 

“You’re one of the only people I’ve met who describes him in a good light. He was known as Kjartan the Cruel, you know. And for good reason.” 

“I said he was a good _Dane_. Not a good man.” Ari sighed and fed another log on the bonfire. “We’ve been living on borrowed time here in Ireland. We all knew it, even when Ardsthorp became what it is. And those settlements down south? Dyflin and Veisafjǫrðr? They’re rich with trade but for how long? We’re conquerors, Sihtric, but we’re not rulers. We want the land but not the people. You think those people are going to just sit and let us continue to get richer?” 

Sihtric tilted his head to the side. “In England, Alfred gave us Danelaw. He signed an accord with Warlord Guthrum.” He paused. “After he was baptised.” 

“And when that Saxon king dies and another takes his place, what happens then? That treaty will die with him.” He sighed. “They want us to be Christians, Sihtric. And to give up our way of life and become _them_. Tell me, this Saxon lover of yours, how many times has he asked you to become Christian?” 

Many, Sihtric wanted to answer. But he didn’t. Instead he lowered his eyes down to the sand. 

“I thought so,” Ari mumbled. “These lands… these people… they’re not meant for us. At least not permanently. We’re travelers and seafarers, and the Gods never wanted us to turn stagnant on land. No, our place is back in Denmark when we’re not sailing for trade or raiding. And that’s where _you_ should be, too. You spent the first half of your life among your mother’s lands in England. Now spend the rest of it with us. Let yourself be a _real_ Dane. Come with us to Denmark.” 

A real Dane. 

The conviction and passion in Ari’s voice was almost moving enough to convince Sihtric right then. But he couldn’t shake his longing for Finan or the home he left back in Coccham. If his words would not sway his friend, then the law would. “I am a _træl_ ,” he grinned tightly at the fire. “It is not my decision on where I go.” 

There was a pause. “Oleif will pay your wergild to free you.” He laughed lightly. “Look around us. Silver and goods are plenty for him.” 

That much was true. But he knew Uhtred. “So you think that I will be freed and my lover - who’s not a Dane - will happily cross to Denmark with me where I’ll live? It’s not that simple.” 

“So make it that simple.” 

He couldn’t, he wanted to reply, because his lover was destined for a life greater and grander than merely being at his side. He was destined to lead a nation, not sail across the North Sea and painfully acclimate to Danish life. And if Finan did find himself crowned king of his lands and people, Sihtric would first and foremost want to be at _his_ side. He would, albeit sad at first, give up his life in Coccham if Uhtred allowed it to remain in Ireland. He would sacrifice everything he knew and loved in Wessex to remain with his lover if his lover would have him. A king and a slave? It was already difficult to accept that a prince took a slave as a lover, but a king? 

“Tell me of Denmark.”

**Author's Note:**

> I survive on kudos, comments, and an unhealthy amount of coffee! Thank you for reading!


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